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Captain Girtfle in Aml'niaa. 







WORKS 


OF 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

w 

<jBKo1jc Cisitiom 


Illustrated from Designs by Darley and Gilbert . 


DOMBEY AND SON, 

four volumes in one. 



NEW YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 
Camfcrrtrge: \Bx 

1870. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the ear 1867, by 
Hurd and Houghton, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 

New York. 


<£ £4-30 7 



RIVERSIDE. CAMBRIDGE: 


ITEREOTTPED AND PRINTED if 
H 0- HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 


DOM BEY AND SON. 


VOLUME I. 

















<U5lo5e €bition 


♦ 


CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 

CHAPTER I. PAe« 

Dombey and Son 9 

CHAPTER II. 

In which timely Provision is made for an Emergency that will 
sometimes arise in the best-regulated Families . . .24 

CHAPTER III. 

In which Mr. Dombey, as a Man and a Father, is seen at the Head 
of the Home Department 39 

CHAPTER IY. 

In which some more First Appearances are made on the Stage of 
these Adventures 55 

CHAPTER V. 

Paul’s Progress and Christening 73 

CHAPTER VI. 

Paul’s Second Deprivation .98 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Bird’s-eye Glimpse of Miss Tox’s Dwelling-place; also of the 
State of Miss Tox’s Affections 128 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Paul’s further Progress, Growth, and Character .... 136 
CHAPTER IX. 

[n which the Wooden Midshipman gets into Trouble . . . 165 

CHAPTER X. 

Containing the Sequel of the Midshipman’s Disaster 


. 185 


CONTENTS. 


viii 

CHAPTER XI. page 

Paul’s Introduction to a new Scene ... ... 202 

CHAPTER XII. 

Paul’s Education • • 223 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Shipping Intelligence and Office Business 249 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Paul grows more and more Old-fashioned, and goes Home for the 
Holidays 266 

CHAPTER XV. 

Amazing Artfulness of Captain Cuttle, and a new Pursuit for Wal- 
ter Cay . . 301 


CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

What the W aves were always saying 7 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Captain Cuttle does a little Business for the Young People . . 15 

CHAPTER XVni. 

Father and Daughter 32 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Walter goes away 59 

CHAPTER XX. 

Mr. Dombey goes upon a Journey 78 

CHAPTER XXI. 

New Faces 99 

CHAPTER XXII. 

A Trifle of Management by Mr. Carker the Manager . . . 115 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Florence Solitary, and the Midshipman Mysterious . . . 144 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

The Study of a loving Heart 17* 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


CHAPTER XXV. paqh 

Strange News of Uncle Sol ... . 194 

CHAPTER XXYI. 

Shadows of the Past and Future . 208 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Deeper Shadows . 232 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Alterations - . 257 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Opening of the Eyes of Mrs. Chick . . . .273 

CHAPTER XXX. 

The Interval before the Marriage 290 


CONTENTS OF VOLUME III. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

The Wedding 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Wooden Midshipman goes to Pieces 

. 31 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Contrasts 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
Another Mother and Daughter . 

. 76 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Happy Pair 

94 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 
House-warming 

112 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

More Warnings than One 

. 130 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Miss Tox improves an Old Acquaintance 

< 146 


CONTENTS. 


* 

CHAPTER XXXIX. pagi 

Further Adventures of Captain Edward Cuttle, Mariner . . 160 

CHAPTER XL. 

Domestic Relations 185 

CHAPTER XLI. 

New Voices in the Waves 209 

CHAPTER XLII. 

Confidential and Accidental 225 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

The Watches of the Night 248 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

A Separation 261 

CHAPTER XLV. 

The Trusty Agent 276 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

Recognizant and Reflective 288 


CONTENTS OF VOLUME IV. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

The Thunderbolt 7 

CHAPTER XL VIII. 

The Flight of Florence 37 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

The Midshipman makes a Discovery 54 

CHAPTER L. 

Mr. Toots’s Complaint 80 

CHAPTER LI. 

Mr. Dombey and the World 106 

CHAPTER LII. 

Secret Intelligence • 118 


CONTENTS. XI 

CHAPTER LIH. paoi 

More Intelligence 140 

CHAPTER LIV. 

The Fugitives 163 

CHAPTER LV. 

Rob the Grinder loses his Place 179 

CHAPTER LVI. 

Several People delighted, and the Game Chicken disgusted . . 197 

CHAPTER LVII. 

Another Wedding 230 

CHAPTER LVm. 

After a Lapse 242 

CHAPTER LIX. 

Retribution 264 

CHAPTER LX. 

Chiefly Matrimonial 292 

CHAPTER LXI. 

Relenting 310 

CHAPTER LXII. 

Final . 829 


















PREFACE 


1 make so bold as to believe that the faculty (oi 
the habit) of closely and carefully observing the char- 
acters of men, is a rare one. I have not even found, 
within my experience, that the faculty (or the habit) 
of closely and carefully observing so much as the 
faces of men, is a general one by any means. The 
two commonest mistakes in judgment that I suppose 
to arise from the former default, are, the confounding 
of shyness with arrogance, and the not understanding 
that an obstinate nature exists in a perpetual struggle 
with itself. 

Mr. Dombey undergoes no violent internal change, 
either in this book, or in life. A sense of his injus- 
tice is within him all along. The more he represses 
it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame 
and external circumstances may bring the contest to 
the surface in a week, or a day ; but, it has been a 
contest for years, and is only fought out after a long 
balance of victory. 

Years have elapsed since I dismissed Mr. Dombey, 


6 


PREFACE. 


I have not been impatient to offer this critical remark 
upon him, and I offer it with some confidence. 

I began this book by the lake of Geneva, and went 
on with it for some months in France. The associa- 
tion between the writing and the place of writing is so 
curiously strong in my mind, that at this day, although 
I know every stair in the little Midshipman’s house, and 
could swear to every pew in the church in which Flor- 
ence was married, or to every young gentleman’s bed- 
stead in Doctor Blimber’s establishment, I yet con- 
fusedly imagine Captain Cuttle as secluding himself from 
Mrs. MacStinger among the mountains of Switzerland. 
Similarly, when I am reminded by any chance of 
what it was that the waves were always saying, I 
wander in my fancy for a whole winter night about 
the streets of Paris — as I really did, with a heavy 
heart, on the night when my little friend and I parted 
company forever. 


DOMBEY AND SON 


CHAPTER I. 

DOMBEY AND SON. 

Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room if/ 
the great arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked 
up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed 
on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close 
to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a 
muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he 
was very new. 

Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son 
about eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, 
rather red, and though a handsome well-made man, too 
stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing. 
Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) 
an undeniably fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty 
in his general effect as yet. On the brow of Dombey, 
Time, and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a 
tree that was to come down in good time — remorseless 
twins they are for striding through their human forests, 
notching as they go — while the countenance of Son was 
crossed and recrossed with a thousand little creases, 
which the same deceitful Time would take delight in 
smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his 


10 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


scythe, as a preparation of the surface for his deeper 
operations. 

Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled 
and jingled the heavy gold watch-chain that depended 
from below his trim blue coat, whereof the buttons 
sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the dis- 
tant fire. Son, with his little fists curled up and clinched, 
seemed, in his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for 
having come upon him so unexpectedly. 

“ The house will once again, Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. 
Dombey, “ be not only in name but in fact Dombey and 
Son ; Dom-bey and Son ! ” 

The words had such a softening influence, that he ap- 
pended a term of endearment to Mrs. Dombey’s name 
(though not without some hesitation, as being a man but 
little used to that form of address) : and said, “ Mrs. 
Dombey, my — my dear.” 

A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick 
lady’s face as she raised her eyes towards him. 

“ He will be christened Paul, my - — Mrs. Dombey — 
of course.” 

She feebly echoed, “ Of course,” or rather expressed 
it by the motion of her lips, and closed her eyes again. 

“ His father’s name, Mrs. Dombey, and his grand- 
father’s ! I wish his grandfather were alive this day ! 99 
And again he said “ Dom-bey and Son,” in exactly the 
game tone as before. 

Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr. Dom- 
bey’s life. The earth was made for Dombey and Son to 
trade in, and the sun and moon were made to give them 
light. Rivers and se'as were formed to float their ships ; 
rainbows gave them promise of fair weather ; winds blew 
for or against their enterprises ; stars and planets circled 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


11 


in their orbits, to preserve inviolate a system of which 
they were the centre. Common abbreviations took new 
meanings in his eyes, and had sole reference to them. 
A. d. had no concern with anno Domini, but stood for 
anno Dombei — and Son. 

He had risen, as his father had before him, in the 
course of life and death, from Son to Dombey, and for 
nearly twenty years had been the sole representative of 
the firm. Of those years he had been married, ten — 
married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give 
him ; whose happiness was in the past, and who was con- 
tent to bind her broken spirit to the dutiful and meek en- 
durance of the present. Such idle talk was little likely 
to reach the ears of Mr. Dombey, whom it nearly con- 
cerned ; and probably no one in the world would have 
received it with such utter incredulity as he, if it had 
reached him. Dombey and Son had often dealt in hides, 
but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys 
and girls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr. Dombey 
would have reasoned : That a matrimonial alliance with 
himself must , in the nature of things, be gratifying and 
honorable to any woman of common sense. That the 
hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a house, 
could not fail to awaken a glorious and stirring ambition 
in the breast of the least ambitious of her sex. That 
Mrs. Dombey had entered on that social contract of 
matrimony : almost necessarily part of a genteel and 
wealthy station, even without reference to the perpetu 
ation of family firms : with her eyes fully open to these 
advantages. That Mrs. Dombey had had daily practical 
knowledge of his position in society. That Mrs. Dom- 
bey had always sat at the head of his table, and done the 
honors of his house in a remarkably lady-like and becom- 


12 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ing manner. That Mrs. Dombey must have been happy. 
That she couldn’t help it. 

Or, at all events, with one drawback. Yes. That he 
would have allowed. With only one ; but that one cer- 
tainly involving much. They had been married ten 
years, and until this present day on which Mr. Dombey 
sat jingling and jingling his heavy gold watch-chain in the 
great arm-chair by the side of the bed, had had no issue. 

— To speak of ; none worth mentioning. There had 
been a girl some six years before, and the child, who had 
stolen into the chamber unobserved, was now crouching 
timidly, in a corner whence she could see her mother’s 
face. But what was a girl to Dombey and Son ! In 
the capital of the House’s name and dignity, such a 
child was merely a piece of base coin that couldn’t be 
invested — a bad boy — nothing more. 

Mr. Dombey’s cup of satisfaction was so full at this 
moment, however, that he felt he could afford a drop or 
two of its contents, even to sprinkle on the dust in the 
by-path of his little daughter. 

So he said, “ Florence, you may go and look at your 
pretty brother, if you like, I dare say. Don’t touch 
him ! ” 

The child glanced keenly at the blue coat and stiff 
white cravat, which, with a pair of creaking boots and a 
very loud-ticking watch, embodied her idea of a father ; 
but her eyes returned to her mother’s face immediately, 
and she neither moved nor answered. 

Next moment, the lady had opened her eyes and seen 
the child , and the child had run towards her ; and, 
standing on tiptce, the better to hide her face in her em- 
brace, had clung about her with a desperate affection 
very much at variance with her years. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


13 


“ Oh Lord bless me ! ” said Mr. Dombey, rising testily. 
“ A very ill-advised and feverish proceeding this, I am 
sure. I had better ask Doctor Peps if he’ll have the 
goodness to step up-stairs again perhaps. I’ll go down 
I'll go down. I needn’t beg you,” he added, pausing for 
a moment at the settee before the fire, “ to take particu- 
lar care of this young gentleman, Mrs. ” 

“ Blockitt, sir ? ” suggested the nurse, a simpering 
piece of faded gentility, who did not presume to state 
her name as a fact, but merely offered it as a mild sug- 
gestion. 

“ Of this young gentleman, Mrs. Blockitt.” 

“ No, sir, indeed. I remember when Miss Florence 
was born ” — 

“ Ay, ay, ay,” said Mr. Dombey, bending over the 
basket bedstead, and slightly bending his brows at the 
same time. “ Miss Florence was all very well, but this 
is another matter. This young gentleman has to accom- 
plish a destiny. A destiny, little fellow ! ” As he thus 
apostrophized the infant he raised one of his hands to 
his lips, and kissed it ; then, seeming to fear that the 
action involved some compromise of his dignity, went, 
awkwardly enough, away. 

Doctor Parker Peps, one of the court physicians, and 
a man of immense reputation for assisting at the increase 
of great families, was walking up and down the drawing- 
room with his hands behind him, to the unspeakable 
admiration of the family surgeon, who had regularly 
puffed the case for the last six weeks, among all his pa- 
tients, friends, and acquaintances, as one to which he 
was in hourly expectation day and night of being sum- 
moned, in conjunction with Doctor Parker Peps. 

“ Well sir,” said Doctor Parker Peps in a round, deep, 


14 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


sonorous voice, muffled for the occasion, like the knocker. 
“ do you find that your dear lady is at all roused by 
your visit ? ” 

“ Stimulated, as it were ? ” said the family practitioner, 
faintly ; bowing at the same time to the doctor, as much 
as to say, “ Excuse my putting in a word, but this is a 
valuable connection.” 

Mr. Dombey was quite discomfited by the question.. 
He had thought so little of the patient, that he was not 
in a condition to answer it. He said that it would te a 
satisfaction to him, if Doctor Parker Peps would walk 
up-stairs again. 

“ Good! We must not disguise from you, sir,” said 
Doctor Parker Peps, u that there is a want of power in 
Her Grace the Duchess — I beg your pardon ; I con- 
found names ; I should say, in your amiable lady. That 
there is a certain degree of languor, and a general ab- 
sence of elasticity, which we would rather — not ” — 

“ See,” interposed the family practitioner, with another 
inclination of the head. 

“ Quite so,” said Doctor Parker Peps, “ which we 
would rather not see. It would appear that the system 
of Lady Cankaby — excuse me ; I should say of Mrs. 
Dombey : I confuse the names of cases ” — 

“ So very numerous,” murmured the family practitioner 
— “ can’t be expected, I’m sure — quite wonderful if 
otherwise — Doctor Parker Peps’s west-end practice ” — 

“ Thank you,” said the doctor, “ quite so. It would 
appear, I was observing, that the system of our patient 
has sustained a shock from which it can only hope to 
rally by a great and strong” — 

“ And vigorous,” murmured the family practitioner. 

66 Quite so,” assented the doctor — “ and vigorous ef- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


15 


fort. Mr. Pilkins here, who from his position of medical 
adviser in this family — no one better qualified to fill 
that position, I am sure.” 

“ Oh ! ” murmured the family practitioner. “ 4 Praise 
from Sir Hubert Stanley ! ’ ” 

“ You are good enough,” returned Doctor Parker 
Peps, “ to say so. Mr. Pilkins who, from his position, 
is best acquainted with the patients constitution in its 
normal state (an acquaintance very valuable to us in 
forming our opinions on these occasions), is of opinion 
with me, that Nature must be called upon to make a 
vigorous effort in this instance ; and that if our interest- 
ing friend the Countess of Dombey — I beg your par- 
don ! Mrs. Dombey — should not be ” — 

“ Able,” said the family practitioner. 

“ To make that effort successfully,” said Doctor Par- 
ker Peps, “ then a crisis might arise, which we should 
both sincerely deplore.” 

With that, they stood for a few seconds looking at the 
ground. Then, on the motion — made in dumb show — 
of Doctor Parker Peps, they went up-stairs ; the family 
practitioner opening the room- door for that distinguished 
professional, and following him out with most obsequious 
politeness. 

To record of Mr. Dombey that he was not in his way 
affected by this intelligence, would be to do him an injus- 
tice. He was not a man of whom it could properly be 
said that he was ever startled or shocked ; but he cer- 
tainly had a sense within him, that if his wife should 
sicken and decay, he would be very sorry, and that he 
would find a something gone from among his plate and 
fiirniture, and other household possessions, which was 
well worth the having, and could not be lost without sin- 


16 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


cere regret. Though it would be a cool, business-like, 
gentlemanly, self-possessed regret, no doubt. 

His meditations on the subject were soon interrupted, 
first by the rustling of garments on the staircase, and 
then by the sudden whisking into the room of a lady 
rather past the middle age than otherwise, but dressed 
in a very juvenile manner, particularly as to the tight- 
ness of her bodice, who, running up to him with a kind 
of screw in her face and carriage, expressive of sup- 
pressed emotion, flung her arms round his neck, and 
said in a choking voice, 

“ My dear Paul ! He’s quite a Dombey ! ” 

“ Well, well ! ” returned her brother — for Mr. Dom- 
bey was her brother — “I think he is like the family. 
Don’t agitate yourself, Louisa.” 

“ It’s very foolish of me,” said Louisa, sitting down, 
and taking out her pocket-handkerchief, “ but he’s — 
he’s such a perfect Dombey ! I never saw anything 
like it in my life ! ” 

“ But what is this about Fanny, herself?” said Mr. 
Dombey. “ How is Fanny ? ” 

“ My dear Paul,” returned Louisa, “ it’s nothing what- 
ever. Take my word, it’s nothing whatever. There is 
exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like what I underwent 
myself, either with George or Frederick. An effort is 
necessary. That’s all. If dear Fanny were a Dombey ! 
— But I dare say she’ll make it ; I have no doubt she’ll 
make it. Knowing it to be required of her, as a duty, 
of course she’ll make it. My dear Paul, it’s very weak 
and silly of me, I know, to be so trembly and shaky 
from head to foot ; but I am so very queer that I must 
ask you for a glass of wine and a morsel of that cake. 
I thought I should have fallen out of the staircase win- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


17 


dow as I came down from seeing dear Fanny, and thaf 
dddy ickle sing.” These last words originated in a sud- 
den vivid reminiscence of the baby. 

They were succeeded by a gentle tap at the door. 

“ Mrs. Chick,” said a very bland female voice outsidej 
u how are you now, my dear friend ? ” 

My dear Paul,” said Louisa in a low voice, as she 
rose from her seat, “ it’s Miss Tox. The kindest crea- 
ture ! I never could have got here without her ! Miss 
Tox, my brother Mr. Dombey. Paul my dear, my very 
particular friend Miss Tox.” 

The lady thus specially presented, was a long lean 
figure, wearing such a faded air that she seemed not to 
have been made in what linen-drapers call “ fast colors ” 
originally, and to have, by little and little, washed out. 
But for this she might have been described as the very 
pink of general propitiation and politeness. From a 
long habit of listening admirably to everything that was 
said in her presence, and looking at the speakers as if 
she were mentally engaged in taking off impressions of 
their images upon her soul, never to part with the same 
but with life, her head had quite settled on one side. 
Her hands had contracted a spasmodic habit of raising 
themselves of their own accord as an involuntary admi- 
ration. Her eyes were liable to a similar affection. 
She had the softest voice that ever was heard ; and hei 
nose, stupendously aquiline, had a little knob in the 
very centre or keystone of the bridge, whence it tended 
downwards towards her face, as in an invincible deter- 
mination never to turn up at anything. 

Miss Tox’s dress, though perfectly genteel and good, 
had a certain character of angularity and scantiness. 
She was accustomed to wear odd weedy little flowers in 

VOL. i. 2 


18 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


her bonnets and caps. Strange grasses were sometimes 
perceived in her hair; and it was observed by the curi- 
ous, of all her collars, frills, tuckers, wristbands, and 
other gossamer articles — indeed of everything she wore 
which had two ends to it intended to unite — that the 
two ends were never on good terms, and wouldn’t quite 
meet without a struggle. She had furry articles for 
winter wear, as tippets, boas, and muffs, which stood up 
on end in a rampant manner, and were not at all sleek 
She was much given to the carrying about of small bags 
with snaps to them, that went off like little pistols when 
they were shut up ; and when full-dressed, she wore 
round her neck the barrenest of lockets, representing a 
fishy old eye with no approach to speculation in it. 
These and other appearances of a similar nature, had 
served to propagate the opinion, that Miss Tox was a 
lady of what is called a limited independence, which she 
turned to the best account. Possibly her mincing gait 
encouraged the belief, and suggested that her clipping a 
step of ordinary compass into two or three, originated in 
her habit of making the most of everything. 

“ I am sure,” said Miss Tox, with a prodigious courte- 
sy, “ that to have the honor of being presented to Mr. 
Dombey is a distinction which I have long sought, but 
very little expected at the present moment. My dear 
Mrs. Chick — may I say Louisa ! ” 

Mrs. Chick took Miss Tox’s hand in hers, rested the 
foot of her wine-glass upon it, repressed a tear, and said 
in a low voice “ Bless you ! ” 

“ My dear Louisa then,” said Miss Tox, u my sweet 
friend, how are you now ? ” 

“ Better,” Mrs. Chick returned. “ Take some wine. 
You have been almost as anxious as I have been, and 
must want it, I am sure.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


19 


Mr. Dombey of course officiated. 

“Miss Tox, Paul,” pursued Mrs. Chick, still retaining 
her hand, “ knowing how much I have been interested in 
the anticipation of the event of to-day, has been working 
at a little gift for Fanny, which I promised to present. 
It is only a pincushion for the toilet table, Paul, but I 
do say, and will say, and must say, that Miss Tox has 
very prettily adapted the sentiment to the occasion I 
call 4 Welcome little Dombey’ poetry, myself!” 

“ Is that the device ? ” inquired her brother. 

“ That is the device,” returned Louisa. 

“But do me the justice to remember, my dear Louisa,” 
said Miss Tox in a tone of low and earnest entreaty, 
“ that nothing but the — I have some difficulty in ex- 
pressing myself — the dubiousness of the result would 
have induced me to take so great a liberty: 6 Welcome, 
Master Dombey,’ would have been much more congenial 
to my feelings, as I am sure you know. But the uncer- 
tainty attendant on angelic strangers, will, I hope, ex- 
cuse what must otherwise appear an unwarrantable fa- 
miliarity.” Miss Tox made a graceful bend as she spoke, 
in favor of Mr. Dombey, which that gentleman graciously 
acknowledged. Even the sort of recognition of Dombey 
and Son, conveyed in the foregoing conversation, was 
so palatable to him, that his sister, Mrs. Chick — though 
he affected to consider her a weak good-natured person 
— had perhaps more influence over him than anybody 
else. 

“Well!” said Mrs. Chick, with a sweet smile, “after 
this, I forgive Fanny everything ! ” 

It w r as a declaration in a Christian spirit, and Mrs. 
Chick felt that it did her good. Not that she had any- 
thing particular to forgive in her sister-in-law, nor indeed 


20 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


anything at all, except her having married her brother 
— in itself a species of audacity — and her having, in 
the course of events, given birth to a girl instead of a 
boy : which, as Mrs. Chick had frequently observed, was 
not quite what she had expected of her, and was not a 
pleasant return for all the attention and distinction she 
had met with. 

Mr. Dombey being hastily summoned out of the room 
at this moment, the two ladies were left alone together. 
Miss Tox immediately became spasmodic. 

w I knew you would admire my brother. I told you 
so beforehand, my dear,” said Louisa. 

Miss Tox’s hands and eyes expressed how much. 

u And as to his property, my dear ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Miss Tox, with deep feeling. 

“ Im — mense ! ” 

“ But his deportment, my dear Louisa ! ” said Miss 
Tox. “ His presence! His dignity! No portrait that I 
have ever seen of any one has been half so replete with 
those qualities. Something so stately, you know : so un- 
compromising : so very wide across the chest : so upright! 
A pecuniary Duke of York, my love, and nothing short 
of it ! ” said Miss Tox. “ That’s what I should desig- 
nate him.” 

“ Why, my dear Paul ! ” exclaimed his sister, as he 
returned, “ you look quite pale ! There’s nothing the 
matter ? ” 

“I am sorry to say, Louisa, that they tell me that 
Fanny ” — 

“ Now, my dear Paul,” returned his sister rising, 
“ don’t believe it. If you have any reliance on my ex- 
perience, Paul, you may rest assured that there is noth- 
ing wanting but an effort on Fanny’s part. And that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


21 


effort,” she continued, taking off her bonnet, and adjust- 
ing her cap and gloves, in a business-like manner, “ she 
must be encouraged, and really, if necessary, urged to 
make. Now, my dear Paul, come up-stairs with me.” 

Mr. Dombey, who, besides being generally influenced 
by his sister for the reason already mentioned, had 
really faith in her as an experienced and bustling 
matron, acquiesced; and followed her, at once, to tho 
sick-chamber. 

The lady lay upon her bed as he had left her, clasp- 
ing her little daughter to her breast. The child clung 
close about her, with the same intensity as before, and 
never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek from her 
mother’s face, or looked on those who stood around, or 
spoke, or moved, or shed a tear. 

“ Restless without the little girl,” the doctor whispered 
Mr. Dombey. “We found it best to have her in again.” 

There was such a solemn stillness round the bed ; and 
the two medical attendants seemed to look on the impas- 
sive form with so much compassion and so little hope, that 
Mrs. Chick was for the moment diverted from her pur- 
pose. But presently summoning courage, and what she 
called presence of mind, she sat down by the bedside, 
and said in the low precise tone of one who endeavors to 
awaken a sleeper : — 

“ Fanny ! Fanny ! ” 

There was no sound in answer but the loud ticking of 
Mr. Dombey’s watch and Doctor Parker Peps’s watch, 
which seemed in the silence to be running a race. 

“ Fanny, my dear,” said Mrs. Chick, with assumed 
lightness, “ here’s Mr. Dombey come to see you. Won’t 
you speak to him ? They want to lay your little boy — 
the baby, Fanny, you know ; you have hardly seen him 


22 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


yet, I think — in bed ; but they can’t till you iouse your- 
self a little. Don’t you think it’s time you moused your- 
self a little ? Eh ? ” 

She bent her ear to the bed, and listened: at the same 
time looking round at the by-standers, and holding up her 
finger. 

“ Eh?” she repeated, 44 what was it you said, Fanny ? 
I didn’t hear you.” 

No word or sound in answer. Mr. Dombey’s watch 
and Dr. Parker Peps’s watch seemed to be racing faster. 

44 Now, really Fanny my dear,” said the sister-in-law, 
altering her position, and speaking less confidently, and 
more earnestly, in spite of herself, 44 1 shall have to be 
quite cross with you, if you don’t rouse yourself. It’s 
necessary for you to make an effort, and perhaps a very 
great and painful effort which you are not disposed to 
make; but this is a world of effort you know, Fanny, 
and we must never yield, when so much depends upon 
us. Come ! Try ! I must really scold you if you 
don’t ! ” 

The race in the ensuing pause was fierce and furious. 
The watches seemed to jostle, and to trip each other 

up. 

44 Fanny ! ” said Louisa, glancing round, with a gath- 
ering alarm. 44 Only look at me. Only open your eyes 
to show me that you hear and understand me ; will you ? 
Good Heaven, gentlemen, what is to be done ! ” 

The two medical attendants exchanged a look across 
die bed ; and the physician, stooping down, whispered 
in the child’s ear. Not having understood the purport 
of his whisper, the little creature turned her perfectly 
colorless face, and deep dark eyes towards him ; but 
without loosening her hold in the least. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


23 


The whisper was repeated. 

“ Mama ! ” said the child. 

The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awakened 
some show of consciousness, even at that ebb. For a 
moment, the closed eyelids trembled, and the nostril quiv- 
ered, and the faintest shadow of a smile was seen. 

“ Mama ! ” cried the child sobbing aloud. “ Oh dear 
mama ! oh dear mama ! ” 

The doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets of 
the child, aside from the face and mouth of the mother. 
Alas how calm they lay there ; how little breath there 
was to stir them ! 

Thus, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, 
the mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea 
that rolls round all the world. 


24 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER II. 

IN WHICH TIMELY PROVISION IS MADE FOR AN EMERGENCY 

THAT WILL SOMETIMES ARISE IN THE BEST-REGULATED 

FAMILIES. 

“ I shall never cease to congratulate myself,” said 
Mrs. Chick, “ on having said, when I little thought what 
was in store for us, — really as if I was inspired by 
something, — that I forgave poor dear Fanny every- 
thing. Whatever happens, that must always be a com- 
fort to me ! ” 

Mrs. Chick made this impressive observation in the 
drawing-room, after having descended thither from the 
inspection of the mantua-makers up-stairs, who were 
busy on the family mourning. She delivered it for the 
behoof of Mr. Chick, who was a stout bald gentleman, 
with a very large face, and his hands continually in his 
pockets, and who had a tendency in his nature to whistle 
and hum tunes, which, sensible of the indecorum of such 
sounds in a house of grief, he was at some pains to re- 
press at present. 

“ Don’t you over-exert yourself, Loo,” said Mr. Chick, 
‘ or you’ll be laid up with spasms, I see. Right tol loor 
rul ! Bless my soul, I forgot ! We’re here one day and 
gone the next ! ” 

Mrs. Chick contented herself with a glance of reproof, 
and then proceeded with the thread of her discourse. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


25 


“ J am sure,” she said, " I hope this heart-rending 
occurrence will be a warning to all of us, to accustom 
ourselves to rouse ourselves and to make efforts in time 
where they’re required of us. There’s a moral in every- 
thing, if we would only avail ourselves of it. It will be 
our own faults if we lose sight of this one.” 

Mr. Chick invaded the grave silence which ensued on 
this remark with the singularly inappropriate air of “ A 
cobbler there was ; ” and checking himself, in some con- 
fusion, observed, that it was undoubtedly our own faults 
if we didn’t improve such melancholy occasions as the 
present. 

“ Which might be better improved, I should think, 
Mr. C.,” retorted his helpmate after a short pause, “ than 
by the introduction, either of the college hornpipe, or the 
equally unmeaning and unfeeling remark of rump-te- 
iddity, bow-wow-wow ! ” which Mr. Chick had indeed 
indulged in, under his breath, and which Mrs. Chick 
repeated in a tone of withering scorn. 

“ Merely habit, my dear,” pleaded Mr. Chick. 

•* Nonsense ! Habit ! ” returned his wife. “ If you’re 
a rational being, don’t make such ridiculous excuses. 
Habit ! If I was to get a habit (as you call it) of 
walking on the ceiling like the flies, I should hear 
enough of it, I dare say.” 

It appeared so probable that such a habit might be 
attended with some degree of notoriety, that Mr. Chick 
didn’t venture to dispute the position. 

“ How’s the baby, Loo ? ” asked Mr. Chick : to change 
the subject. 

“ What baby do you mean ? ” answered Mrs. Chick. 
“ I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining- 
room down-stairs one mass of babies, no one in their 
senses would believe.” 


26 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a One mass of babies ! ” repeated Mr. Chick, staring 
with an alarmed expression about him. 

u It would have occurred to most men,” said Mrs. 
Chick, u that poor dear Fanny being no more, it be- 
comes necessary to provide a nurse.” 

“ Oh ! Ah ! ” said Mr. Chick. “ Toor-rul — such is 
life, I mean. I hope you are suited, my dear.” 

u Indeed I am not,” said Mrs. Chick ; u nor likely 
to be, so far as I can see. Meanwhile, of course, the 
child is ” — 

“ Going to the very deuse,” said Mr. Chick, thought- 
fully, “ to be sure.” 

Admonished, however, that he had committed him- 
self, by the indignation expressed in Mrs. Chick’s coun- 
tenance at the idea of a Dombey going there ; and 
thinking to atone for his misconduct by a bright sug- 
gestion, he added : — 

“ Couldn’t something temporary be done with a tea- 
pot ? ” 

If he had meant to bring the subject prematurely to 
a close, he could not have done it more effectually. 
After looking at him for some moments in silent resig- 
nation, Mrs. Chick walked majestically to the window 
and peeped through the blind, attracted by the sound 
of wheels. Mr. Chick, finding that his destiny was, for 
the time, against him, said no more, and walked off. But 
it was not always thus with Mr. Chick. He was often 
in the ascendant himself, and at those times punished 
Louisa roundly. In their matrimonial bickerings they 
were, upon the whole, a well-matched, fairly balanced, 
give-and-take couple. It would have been, generally 
speaking, very difficult to have betted on the winner. 
Often when Mr. Chick seemed beaten, he would sud- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


27 


denly make a start, turn the tables, clatter them about 
the ears of Mrs. Chick, and carry all before him. Be- 
ing liable himself to similar unlooked-for checks from 
Mrs. Chick, their little contests usually possessed a 
character of uncertainty that was very animating. 

Miss Tox had arrived on the wheels just now alluded 
to, and came running into the room in a breathless con- 
dition. 

“ My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “ is the vacancy 
still unsupplied ? ” 

“ You good soul, yes,” said Mrs. Chick. 

“ Then, my dear Louisa,” returned Miss Tox, “ I hope 
and believe — but in one moment, my dear, I’ll introduce 
the party.” 

Running down-stairs again as fast as she had run up, 
Miss Tox got the party out of the hackney-coach, and 
soon returned with it under convoy. 

It then appeared that she had used the word, not in 
its legal or business acceptation, when it merely expresses 
an individual, but as a noun of multitude, or signifying 
many : for Miss Tox escorted a plump rosy-cheeked 
wholesome apple-faced young woman, with an infant in 
her arms ; a younger woman not so plump, but apple- 
faced also, who led a plump and apple-faced child in 
each hand ; another plump and also apple-faced boy 
who walked by himself ; and finally, a plump and ap- 
ple-faced man, who carried in his arms another plump 
and apple-faced boy, whom he stood down on the floor, 
• and admonished in a husky whisper, to “ kitch hold of 
his brother Johnny.” 

“ My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “ knowing your 
great anxiety, and wishing '■o relieve it, I posted off 
myself to the Queen Charlotte s Royal Married Females, 


28 


DOMBEY AND SON 


which you had forgot, and put the question, Was there 
anybody there that they thought would suit ? No, they 
said, there was not. When they gave me that answer, 
I do assure you, my dear, I was almost driven to despair 
on your account. But it did so happen, that one of the 
Royal Married Females, hearing the inquiry, reminded 
the matron of another who had gone to her own home, 
and who, she said, would in all likelihood be most satis- 
factory. The moment I heard this, and had it corrob- 
orated by the matron — excellent references and unim- 
peachable character — I got the address, my dear, and 
posted off again.” 

“ Like the dear good Tox, you are ! ” said Louisa. 

“ Not at all,” returned Miss Tox. “ Don’t say sc. 
Arriving at the house (the cleanest place, my dear! 
You might eat your dinner off the floor), I found the 
whole family sitting at table ; and feeling that no ac- 
count of them could be half so comfortable to you and 
Mr. Dombey as the sight of them all together, I brought 
them all away. “ This gentleman,” said Miss Tox, 
pointing out the apple-faced man, “ is the father. Will 
you have the goodness to come a little forward, sir ? ” 

The apple-faced man having sheepishly complied with 
this request, stood chuckling and grinning in a front row. 

“ This is his wife, of course,” said Miss Tox, singling 
out the young woman with the baby. “ How do you 
do, Polly?” 

“ I’m pretty well, I thank you, ma’am,” said Polly. 

By way of bringing her out dexterously, Miss Tox 
had made the inquiry as in condescension to an old ac- 
quaintance, whom she hadn’t seen for a fortnight or so. 

“ I’m glad to hear it,” said Miss Tox. “ The other 
young woman is her unmarried sister who lives with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


29 


them, and would take care of her children. Her name’s 
Jemima. How do you do, Jemima?” 

“ I’m pretty well, I thank you, ma’am,” returned Je- 
mima. 

“ I’m very glad indeed to hear it,” said Miss Tox. 
“ I hope you’ll keep so. Five children. Youngest six 
weeks. The fine little boy with the blister on his nose 
is the eldest. The blister, I believe,” said Miss Tox, 
looking round upon the family, “is not constitutional, 
but accidental ? ” < 

The apple-faced man was understood to growl, “ Flat- 
iron.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Miss Tox, “ did 
you ? ” — 

“ Flat-iron,” he repeated. 

“ Oh yes,” said Miss Tox. “ Yes ! quite true. I 
forgot. The little creature, in his mother’s absence, 
smelt a warm flat-iron. You’re quite right, sir. You 
were going to have the goodness to inform me, when 
we arrived at the door, that you were by trade, a ” — 

“ Stoker,” said the man. 

“ A choker ! ” said Miss Tox, quite aghast. 

“ Stoker,” said the man. “ Steam-engine.” 

“ Oli-h ! Yes ! ” returned Miss Tox, looking thought- 
fully at him, and seeming still to have but a very im- 
perfect understanding of his meaning. 

“ And how do you like it, sir ? ” 

“ Which, mum ? ” said the man. 

“ That,” replied Miss Tox. “ Your trade.” 

“ Oh 1 Pretty well, mum. The ashes sometimes gets 
in here , ” touching his chest : “ and makes a man speak 
gruff, as at the present time. But it is ashes, mum, 
not crustiness” 


30 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Miss Tox seemed to be so little enlightened by this 
reply, as to find a difficulty in pursuing the subject 
But Mrs. Chick relieved her, by entering into a close 
private examination of Polly, her children, her marriage 
certificate, testimonials, and so forth. Polly coming out 
unscathed from this ordeal, Mrs. Chick withdrew with 
her report to her brother’s room, and as an emphatic 
comment on it, and corroboration of it, carried the two 
rosiest little Toodles with her, Toodle being the family 
name of the apple-faced family. 

Mr. Dombey had remained in his own apartment since 
the death of his wife, absorbed in visions of the youth, 
education, and destination of his baby son. Something 
lay at the bottom of his cool heart, colder and heavier 
than its ordinary load ; but it was more a sense of the 
child’s loss than his own, awakening within him an 
almost angry sorrow. That the life and progress on 
which he built such hopes, should be endangered in the 
outset by so mean a want ; that Dombey and Son should 
be tottering for a nurse, was a sore humiliation. And 
yet in his pride and jealousy, he viewed with so much 
bitterness the thought of being dependent for the very 
first step towards the accomplishment of his soul’s de- 
sire, on a hired serving-woman who would be to the 
child, for the time, all that even his alliance could have 
made his own wife, that in every new rejection of a 
candidate he felt a secret pleasure. The time bad 
now come, however, when he could no longer be di- 
vided between those two sets of feelings. The less so, 
as there seemed to be no flaw in the title of Polly 
Toodle after his sister had set it forth, with many 
commendations on the indefatigable friendship of Miss 
Tox. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


31 


“ These children look healthy,” said Mr. Dombey. 
K But to think of their some day claiming a sort of 
relationship to Paul ! Take them away, Louisa ! Let 
me see this woman and her husband.” 

Mrs. Chick bore off the tender pair of Toodles, and 
presently returned with that tougher couple whose pres- 
ence her brother had commanded. 

“ My good woman,” said Mr. Dombey, turning round 
in his easy-chair, as one piece, and not as a man with 
limbs and joints, u I understand you are poor, and wish 
to earn money by nursing the little boy, my son, who 
has been so prematurely deprived of what can never 
be replaced. I have no objection to your adding to 
the comforts of your family by that means. So far as 
I can tell, you seem to be a deserving object. But I 
must impose one or two conditions on you, before you 
enter my house in that capacity. While you are here, 
I must stipulate that you are always known as — say as 
Richards — an ordinary name and convenient. Have 
you any objection to be known as Richards ? You had 
better consult your husband.” 

As the husband did nothing but chuckle and grin, and 
continually draw his right hand across his mouth, mois- 
tening the palm, Mrs. Toodle after nudging him twice 
or thrice in vain, dropped a courtesy and replied “ that 
perhaps if she was to be called out of her name, it would 
be considered in the wages.” 

“ Oh, of course,” said Mr. Dombey. “ I desire to 
make it a question of wages, altogether. Now, Richards, 
if you nurse my bereaved child, I wish you to remem- 
ber this always. You will receive a liberal stipend in 
return for the discharge of certain duties, in the per- 
formance of which, I wish you to see as littlp of your 


82 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


family as possible. When those duties cease to be re- 
quired and rendered, and the stipend ceases to be paid, 
there is an end of all relations between us. Do you 
understand me?” 

% 

Mrs. Toodle seemed doubtful about it; and as to 
Toodle himself, he had evidently no doubt whatever, that 
he was all abroad. 

“ You have children of your own,” said Mr. Dombey. 
M It is not at all in this bargain that you need become 
attached to my child, or that my child need become 
attached to you. I don’t expect or desire anything of 
the kind. Quite the reverse. When you go away 
from here, you will have concluded what is a mere 
matter of bargain and sale, hiring and letting : and 
will stay away. The child will cease to remember 
you ; and you will cease, if you please, to remember 
the child.” 

Mrs. Toodle, with a little more color in her cheeks 
than she had had before, said “ she hoped she knew 
her place.” 

“ I hope you do, Richards,” said Mr. Dombey. “ 1 
have no doubt you know it very well. Indeed it is so 
plain and obvious that it could hardly be otherwise. 
Louisa, my dear, arrange with Richards about money, 
and let her have it when and how she pleases. Mr. 
what’s-your-name, a word with you, if you please!” 

Thus arrested on the threshold as he was following 
is wife out of the room, Toodle returned and con- 
fronted Mr. Dombey alone. He was a strong, loose, 
round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his 
clothes sat negligently : with a good deal of hair and 
whisker, deepened in its natural tint, perhaps, by smoke 
and coal-dust : hard knotty hands : and a square fore- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


33 


head, as coar&e in grain as the bark of an oak. A 
thorough contrast in all respects to Mr. Dombey, who 
was one of those close-shaved close-cut moneyed gentle- 
men who are glossy and crisp like new bank-notes, and 
who seem to be artificially braced and tightened as by 
the stimulating action of golden shower-baths. 

“ You have a son, I believe ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Four on ’em, sir. Four hims and a her. All 
alive ! ” 

“ Why, it’s as much as you can afford to keep them ! ” 
said Mr. Dombey. 

“ I couldn’t hardly afford but one thing in the world 
less, sir.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ To lose ’em, sir.” 

“ Can you read ? ” asked Mr. Dombey. 

“ Why, not partick’ler, sir.” 

“ Write ? ” 

“ With chalk, sir.” 

“With anything?” 

“ I could make shift to chalk a little bit, I think, if 
I was put to it,” said Toodle, after some reflection. 

“ And yet,” said Mr. Dombey, “ you are two or three 
and thirty, I suppose ? ” 

“ Thereabouts, I suppose, sir,” answered Toodle, after 
more reflection. 

“ Then why don’t you learn ? ” asked Mr. Dombey. 

“ So I’m a-going to, sir. One of my little boys is a- 
going to learn me, when he’s old enough, and been to 
school himself.” 

“Well!” said Mr. Dombey, after looking at him at* 
tentively and with no great favor, as he stood gazing 
round the room (principally round the ceiling) and still 

VOL. I. 3 


34 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


drawing his hand across and across his mouth. “ You 
heard what I said to your wife just now ? ” 

“ Polly heerd it,” said Toodle, jerking his hat over his 
shoulder in the direction of the door, with an air of per- 
fect confidence in his better half. “ It’s all right.” 

“ As you appear to leave everything to her,” said Mr. 
Dombey, frustrated in his intention of impressing his 
views still more distinctly on the husband, as the stronger 
character, “ I suppose it is of no use my saying anything 
to you.” 

“ Not a bit,” said Toodle. “ Polly heerd it. She* 8 
awake, sir.” 

u I won’t detain you any longer then,” returned Mr. 
Dombey disappointed. “ Where have you worked all 
your life ? ” 

“ Mostly underground, sir, till I got married. I come 
to the level then. I’m a-going on one of these here rail- 
roads when they comes into full play.” 

As the last straw breaks the laden camel’s back, this 
piece of underground information crushed the sinking 
spirits of Mr. Dombey. He motioned his child’s foster- 
father to the door, who departed by no means unwill- 
ingly : and then turning the key, paced up and down 
the room in solitary wretchedness. For all his starched 
impenetrable dignity and composure, he wiped blinding 
tears from his eyes as he did so : and often said, with an 
emotion of which he would not, for the world, have fad 
a witness, “ Poor little fellow ! ” 

It may have been characteristic of Mr. Dombey’s 
pride that he pitied himself through the child. Not 
poor me. Not poor widower, confiding by constraint 
in the wife of an ignorant Hind who has been work- 
ing u mostly underground ” all his life, an 1 yet at whose 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


35 


door Death has never knocked, and at whose poor table 
four sons daily sit — but poor little fellow ! 

Those words being on his lips, it occurred to him — 
and it is an instance of the strong attraction with which 
his hopes and fears and all his thoughts were tending to 
one centre — that a great temptation was being placed in 
this woman’s way. Her infant was a boy too. Now, 
would it be possible for her to change them ? 

Though he was soon satisfied that he had dismissed 
the idea as romantic and unlikely — though possible, 
there was no denying — he could not help pursuing it 
so far as to entertain within himself a picture of what 
his condition would be, if he should discover such an im- 
posture when he was grown old. Whether a man so 
situated, would be able to pluck away the result of so 
many years of usage, confidence, and belief, from the im- 
postor, and endow a stranger with it ? 

As his unusual emotion subsided, these misgivings 
gradually melted away, though so much of their shadow 
remained behind, that he was constant in his resolution 
to look closely after Richards himself, without appearing 
to do so. Being now in an easier frame of mind, he re- 
garded the woman’s station as rather an advantageous 
circumstance than otherwise, by placing, in itself, a 
broad distance between her and the child, and render- 
ing their separation easy and natural. 

Meanwhile terms were ratified and agreed upon be- 
tween Mrs. Chick and Richards, with the assistance of 
Miss Tox ; and Richards being with much ceremony in- 
vested with the Dombey baby, as if it were an Order, 
resigned her own, with many tears and kisses to Jemima. 
Glasses of wine were then produced, to sustain the 
drooping spirits of the family. 


36 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ You’ll take a glass yourself, sir, won’t you ? ” said 
Miss Tox, as Toodle appeared. 

“ Thankee, mum,” said Toodle, “ since you are sup- 
pressing.” 

“ And you’re very glad to leave your dear good wife 
in such a comfortable home, a’n’t you, sir ? ” said Miss 
Tox, nodding and winking at him stealthily. 

“ No, mum,” said Toodle. “ Here’s wishing of her 
back agin.” 

Polly cried more than ever at this. So Mrs. Chick, 
who had her matronly apprehensions that this indulgence 
in grief might be prejudicial to the little Dombey (“ acid, 
indeed,” she whispered Miss Tox), hastened to the rescue. 

“ Your little child will thrive charmingly with your sis- 
ter Jemima, Richards,” said Mrs. Chick ; “ and you have 
only to make an effort — this is a world of effort, you 
know, Richards — 1 to be very happy indeed. You have 
been already measured for your mourning, haven’t you, 
Richards ? ” 

“ Ye — es, ma’am,” sobbed Polly. 

“ And it’ll fit beautifully, I know,” said Mrs. Chick, 
“ for the same young person has made me many dresses. 
The very best materials, too ! ” 

“ Lor, you’ll be so smart,” said Miss Tox, “ that your 
husband won’t know you ; will you, sir ? ” 

“I should know her,” said Toodle, gruffly, “anyhows 
2nd anywheres.” 

Toodle was evidently not to be bought over. 

“ As to living, Richards, you know,” pursued Mrs. 
Chick, “ why the very best of everything will be at your 
disposal. You will order your little dinner every day ; 
and anything you take a fancy to, I’m sure will be as 
readily provided as if you were a lady.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


37 


“ Yes, to be sure ! ” said Miss Tox, keeping up the 
ball with great sympathy. “ And as to porter ! — quite 
unlimited, will it not, Louisa ? ” 

“Oh, certainly!” returned Mrs. Chick, in the same 
tone. “ With a little abstinence, you know, my dear, in 
point of vegetables.” 

“ And pickles, perhaps,” suggested Miss Tox. 

“ With such exceptions,” said Louisa, “ she’ll consult 
her choice entirely, and be under no restraint at all, my 
love.” 

“ And then, of course, you know,” said Miss Tox, 

however fond she is of her own dear little child — * 
and I’m sure, Louisa, you don’t blame her for being fond 
of it ? ” 

“ Oh no ! ” cried Mrs. Chick, benignantly. 

“ Still,” resumed Miss Tox, “she naturally must be in- 
terested in her young charge, and must consider it a 
privilege to see a little cherub closely connected with 
the superior classes, gradually unfolding itself from day 
to day at one common fountain. Is it not so, Louisa?” 

“ Most undoubtedly ! ” said Mrs. Chick. “ You see, 
my love, she’s already quite contented and comfortable, 
and means to say good-by to her sister Jemima and her 
little pets, and her good honest husband, with a light 
heart and a smile; don’t she, my dear!” 

“ Oh yes ! ” cried Miss Tox. “ To be sure she does ! ” 

Notwithstanding which, however, poor Polly embraced 
them all round in great distress, and finally ran away to 
avoid any more particular leave-taking between herself 
and the children. But the stratagem hardly succeeded 
as well as it deserved ; for the smallest boy but one 
divining her intent, immediately began swarming up- 
stairs after her — if that word of doubtful etymology 


38 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


be admissible — on his arms and legs; while the eldest 
(known in the family by the name of Biler, in remem- 
brance of the steam-engine) beat a demoniacal tattoo 
with his boots, expressive of grief ; in which he was 
joined by the rest of the family. 

A quantity of oranges and halfpence, thrust indis- 
criminately on each young Toodle, checked the first 
violence of their regret, and the family were speedily 
transported to their own home, by means of the hack- 
ney-coach kept in waiting for that purpose. The chil- 
dren, under the guardianship of Jemima, blocked up the 
window, and dropped out oranges and halfpence all the 
way along. Mr. Toodle himself preferred to ride be- 
hind among the spikes, as being the mode of convey- 
ance to which he was best accustomed. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


39 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH MR. DOMBEY, AS A MAN AND A FATHER, IS 
SEEN AT THE HEAD OF THE HOME-DEPARTMENT. 

The funeral of the deceased lady having been “ per- 
formed ” to the entire satisfaction of the undertaker, as 
well as of the neighborhood at large, which is generally 
disposed to be captious on such a point, and is prone to 
take offence at any omissions or short-comings in the 
ceremonies, the various members of Mr. Dombey’s 
household subsided into their several places in the do- 
mestic system. That small world, like the great one 
out of doors, had the capacity of easily forgetting its 
dead ; and when the cook had said she was a quiet-tem- 
pered lady, and the house-keeper had said it was the 
common lot, and the butler had said who’d have thought 
it, and the house-maid had said she couldn’t hardly believe 
it, and the footman had said it seemed exactly like a 
dream, they had quite worn the subject out, and began 
to think their mourning was wearing rusty too. 

On Richards, who was established up-stairs in a state 
of honorable captivity, the dawn of her new life seemed 
to break cold and gray. Mr. Dombey’s house was a 
large one, on the shady side of a tall, dark, dreadfully 
genteel street in the region between Portland-place and 
Bryanstcne-square. It was a corner house, with great 
wide areas containing cellars frowned upon by baired 


40 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


windows, and leered at by crooked-eyed doors leading to 
dustbins. It was a house of dismal state, with a circu- 
lar back to it, containing a whole suite of drawing-rooms 
looking upon a gravelled yard, where two gaunt trees, 
with blackened trunks and branches, rattled rather than 
rustled, their leaves were so smoke-dried. The summer 
sun was never on the street, but in the morning about 
breakfast-time, when it came with the water-carts and 
the old clothes-men, and the people with geraniums, and 
the umbrella-mender, and the man who trilled the little 
bell of the Dutch clock as he went along. It was soon 
gone again to return no more that day ; and the bands 
of music and the straggling Punch's shows going after 
it, left it a prey to the most dismal of organs and white 
mice ; with now and then a porcupine, to vary the en- 
tertainments ; until the butlers whose families were din- 
ing out, began to stand at the house-doors in the twilight, 
and the lamp-lighter made his nightly failure in attempt- 
ing to brighten up the street with gas. 

It was as blank a house inside as outside. When the 
funeral was over, Mr. Dombey ordered the furniture to 
be covered up — perhaps to preserve it for the son with 
whom his plans were all associated — and the rooms to 
be ungarnished, saving such as he retained for himself 
on the ground floor. Accordingly, mysterious shapes 
were made of tables and chairs, heaped together in the 
middle of rooms, and covered over with great winding- 
sheets. Bell-handles, window-blinds, and looking-glasses, 
being papered up in journals, daily and weekly, obtruded 
fragmentary accounts of deaths and dreadful murders 
Every chandelier or lustre, muffled in holland, looked 
like a monstrous tear depending from the ceiling’s eye. 
Odors, as from vaults and damp places, came out of the 


D0MBE1 AND SON. 


41 


chimneys. The dead and buried lady was awful in a 
picture-frame of ghastly bandages. Every gust of wind 
that rose, brought eddying round the corner from the 
neighboring mews, some fragments of the straw that 
had been strewn before the house when she was ill, 
mildewed remains of which were still cleaving to the 
neighborhood ; and these, being always drawn by some 
invisible attraction to the threshold of the dirty house 
to let immediately opposite, addressed a dismal eloquence 
to Mr. Dombey’s windows. 

The apartments which Mr. Dombey reserved for his 
own inhabiting, were attainable from the hall, and con- 
sisted of a sitting-room ; a library, which was in fact a 
dressing-room, so that the smell of hot-pressed paper, 
vellum, morocco, and Russia leather, contended in it 
with the smell of divers pairs of boots ; and a kind of 
conservatory or little glass breakfast-room beyond, com- 
manding a prospect of the trees before mentioned, and, 
generally speaking, of a few prowling cats. These three 
rooms opened upon one another. In the morning, when 
Mr. Dombey was at his breakfast in one or other of the 
^wo first-mentioned of them, as well as in the afternoon 
when he came home to dinner, a bell was rung for 
Richards to repair to this glass chamber, and there walk 
to and fro with her young charge. From the glimpses 
she caught of Mr. Dombey at these times, sitting in the 
dark distance, looking out towards the infant from among 
the dark heavy furniture — the house had been inhab- 
ited for years by his father, and in many of its appoint- 
ments was old-fashioned and grim — she began to enter- 
tain ideas of him in his solitary state, as if he were a 
lone prisoner in a cell, or a strange apparition that was 
not to be accosted or understood. 


42 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Little Paul Dombey’s foster-mother had led this lift, 
herself and had carried little Paul through it for some 
weeks ; and had returned up-stairs one day from a mel- 
ancholy saunter through the dreary rooms of state (she 
never went out without Mrs. Chick, who called on fine 
mornings, usually accompanied by Miss Tox, to take her 
and Baby for an airing — or in other words, to march 
them gravely up and down the pavement ; like a walk- 
ing funeral) ; when, as she was sitting in her own room, 
the door was slowly and quietly opened, and a dark-eyed 
little girl looked in. 

“ It’s Miss Florence come home from her aunt’s, no 
doubt,” thought Richards, who had never seen the child 
before. “ Hope I see you well, miss.” 

“ Is that my brother ? ” asked the child, pointing to 
the baby. 

“ Yes, my pretty,” answered Richards. “ Come and 
kiss him.” 

But. the child, instead of advancing, looked her ear- 
nestly in the face, and said : — 

“ What have you done with my Mama ? ” 

“Lord bless the little creeter! ” cried Richards, “what 
a sad question ! I done ? Nothing, miss.” 

“ What have they done with my Mama ? ” inquired the 
child. 

“ I never saw such a melting thing in all my life ! ” said 
Richards, who naturally substituted for this child one 
of her own, inquiring for herself in like circumstances. 

Come nearer here, my dear miss ! Don’t be afraid of 

jj 

me. 

“ I am not afraid of you,” said the child, drawing 
nearer. “But I want to know what they have done 
with my Mama.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


43 


“ My darling,’’ said Richards, “ you wear that pretty 
black frock in remembrance of your Mama.” 

“ I can remember my Mama,” returned the child, with 
tears springing to her eyes, “ in any frock/’ 

“ But people put on black, to remember people when 
they’re gone.” 

“ Where gone ? ” asked the child. 

“ Come and sit down by me,” said Richards, u and I’ll 
tell you a story.” 

With a quick perception that it was intended to relate 
to what she had asked, little Florence laid aside the 
bonnet she had held in her hand until now, and sat 
down on a stool at the nurse’s feet, looking up into her 
face. 

“Once upon a time,” said Richards, “there was a lady 
— a very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved 
her.” 

“A very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved 
her,” repeated the child. 

“ Who, when God thought it right that it should be so, 
was taken ill and died.” 

The child shuddered. 

“ Died, never to be seen again by any one on earth, and 
was buried in the ground where the trees grow.” 

u The cold ground,” said the child shuddering again. 

“ No ! The warm ground,” returned Polly, seizing her 
advantage, “ where the ugly little seeds turn into beauti 
ful flowers, and into grass, and corn, and I don’t knovf 
what all besides. Where good people turn into bright 
angels, and fly away to Heaven ! ” 

The child who had drooped her head, raised it again, 
and sat looking at her intently. 

“ So ; let me see,” said Polly, not a little flurried 


44 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


between this earnest scrutiny, her desire to comfort the 
child, her sudden success, and her very slight confidence 
in her own powers. u So, when this lady died, where- 
ever they took her, or wherever they put her, she went 
to God ! and she prayed to Him, this lady did,” said 
Polly, affecting herself beyond measure ; being heartily 
in earnest, “ to teach her little daughter to be sure of 
that in her heart : and to know that she was happy there 
and loved her still : and to hope and try — oh all her 
life — to meet her there one day, never, never, never to 
part any more.” 

“ It was my Mama ! ” exclaimed the child, springing 
up, and clasping her round the neck. 

“ And the child’s heart,” said Polly, drawing her to 
her breast : “ the little daughter’s heart was so full of the 
truth of this, that even when she heard it from a strange 
nurse that couldn’t tell it right, but was a poor mother 
herself and that was all, she found a comfort in it — 
didn’t feel so lonely — sobbed and cried upon her bosom 
— took kindly to the baby lying in her lap — and — 
there, there, there ! ” said Polly smoothing the child’s 
curls and dropping tears upon them. “ There, poor 
dear!” 

“ Oh well, Miss Floy ! And won’t your Pa be angry 
neither ! ” cried a quick voice at the door, proceeding 
from a short, brown, womanly girl of fourteen, with a 
little snub nose and black eyes like jet beads. “When 
t was ’tickerlerly given out that you wasn’t to go and 
worrit the wet nurse.” 

“ She don’t worry me,” was the surprised rejoinder of 
Polly. “ I am very fond of children.” 

“ Oh ! but begging your pardon, Mrs. Richards, that 
don’t matter you know,” returned the black-eyed girl, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


45 


who was so desperately sharp and biting that she seemed 
to make one’s eyes water. “ I may be very fond of 
pennywinkles, Mrs. Richards, but it don’t follow that I’m 
to have ’em for tea.” 

“ Well, it don’t matter,” said Polly. 

“Oh thankee, Mrs. Richards, don’t k!” returned the 
sharp girl. “ Remembering, however, if you 11 be so 
good, that Miss Floy’s under my charge, and Master 
Paul’s under your’n.” 

“ But still we needn’t quarrel,” said Polly. 

“ Oh no, Mrs. Richards,” rejoined Spitfire. “ Not at 
all, I don’t wish it, we needn’t stand upon that footing, 
Miss Floy being a permanency, Master Paul a tem- 
porary.” Spitfire made use of none but comma pauses ; 
shooting out whatever she had to say in one sentence, 
and in one breath, if possible. 

“ Miss Florence has just come home, hasn’t she ? ” 
asked Polly. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Richards, just come home, and here, Miss 
Floy, before you’ve been in the house a quarter of an 
hour, you go a-smearing your wet face against the ex- 
pensive mourning that Mrs. Richards is a-wearing for 
your Ma ! ” With this remonstrance, young Spitfire, 
whose real name was Susan Nipper, detached the child 
from her new friend by a wrench — as if she were a 
tooth. But she seemed to do it, more in the excessively 
sharp exercise of her official functions, than with any 
deliberate unkindness. 

“ She’ll be quite happy, now she has come home 
again,” said Polly, nodding to her with an encouraging 
smile upon her wholesome face, “ and will be so pleased 
to see her dear Papa to-night.” 

“ Lork, Mrs. Richards ! ” cried Miss Nipper, taking 


46 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


up her words with a jerk. “ Don’t. See her dear Papa 
indeed ! I should like to see her do it ! ” 

“ Won’t she then ? ” asked Polly. 

“ Lork, Mrs. Richards, no, her Pa’s a deal too wrapped 
up in somebody else, and before there was a somebody 
else to be wrapped up in she never was a favorite, girls 
are thrown away in this house, Mrs. Richards, 1 assure 
you.” 

The child looked quickly from one nurse to the other, 
as if she understood and felt what was said. 

“ You surprise me ! ” cried Polly. “ Hasn’t Mr. 
Dombey seen her since ” — 

“ No,” interrupted Susan Nipper. “ Not once since, 
and he hadn’t hardly set his eyes upon her before that 
for months and months, and I don’t think he’d have 
known her for his own child if he had met her in the 
streets, or would know her for his own child if he was to 
meet her in the streets to-morrow, Mrs. Richards, as to 
me” said Spitfire, with a giggle, “ I doubt if he’s aweer 
of my existence.” 

“ Pretty dear ! ” said Richards ; meaning, not Miss 
Nipper, but the little Florence. 

“ Oh ! there’s a Tartar within a hundred miles of 
where we’re now in conversation, I can tell you, Mrs. 
Richards, present company always excepted too,” said 
Susan Nipper; “wish you good-morning, Mrs. Richards, 
now Miss Floy, you come along with me, and don’t go 
hanging back like a naughty wicked child that judgments 
is no example to, don’t.” 

In spite of being thus adjured, and in spite also of 
some hauling on the part of Susan Nipper, tending tow- 
ards the dislocation of her right shoulder, little Florence 
broke away, and kissed her new friend, f-ffectionately. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


47 


u Good-by ! ” said the child. “ God bless you ! 1 

shall come to see you again soon, and you’ll come to see 
me? Susan will let us. Won’t you, Susan ? ” 

Spitfire seemed to be in the main a good-natured little 
body, although a disciple of that school of trainers of the 
young idea which holds that childhood, like money, must 
be shaken and rattled and jostled about a good deal to 
keep it bright. For, being thus appealed to with some 
endearing gestures and caresses, she folded her small 
arms and shook her head, and conveyed a relenting ex- 
pression into her very-wide-open black eyes. 

“ It a’n’t right of you to ask it, Miss Floy, for you 
know I can’t refuse you, but Mrs. Richards and me 
will see what can be done, if Mrs. Richards likes, 1 
may wish, you see, to take a voyage to Chaney, Mrs. 
Richards, but I mayn’t know how to leave the London 
Docks.” 

Richards assented to the proposition. 

“ This house a’n’t so exactly ringing with merry-mak 
ing,” said Miss Nipper, “ that one need be lonelier than 
one must be. Your Toxes and your Chickses may draw 
out my two front double teeth, Mrs. Richards, but that’s 
no reason why I need offer ’em the whole set.” 

This proposition was also assented to by Richards, as 
an obvious one. 

“ So I’m agreeable, I’m sure,” said Susan Nipper, 
“ to live friendly, Mrs. Richards, while Master Paul 
continues a permanency, if the means can be planned 
out without going openly against orders, but goodness 
gracious me, Miss Floy, you haven’t got your things 
off yet, you naughty child, you haven’t, come along ! ” 

With these words, Susan Nipper, in a transport of 
coercion, made a charge at her young ward, and swept 
her out of the room. 


48 


DOM BEY AND SON. 


The child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so 
quiet, and uncomplaining ; was possessed of so much 
affection, that no one seemed to care to have, and so 
much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to mind 
or think about the wounding of ; that Polly’s heart was 
sore when she was left alone again. In the simple pas- 
sage that had taken place between herself and the 
motherless little girl, her own motherly heart had been 
touched, no less than the child’s ; and she felt, as the 
child did, that there was something of confidence and 
interest between them from that moment. 
m Notwithstanding Mr. Toodle’s great reliance on Polly, 
she w T as perhaps in point of artificial accomplishments 
very little his superior. But she was a good plain 
sample of a nature that is ever, in the mass, better, 
truer, higher, nobler, quicker to feel, and much more 
constant to retain, all tenderness and pity, self-denial 
and devotion, than the nature of men. And, perhaps, 
unlearned as she was, she could have brought a dawn- 
ing knowledge home to Mr. Dombey at that early day, 
which would not then have struck him in the end like 

lightning. 

© © 

But this is from the purpose. Polly only thought, at 
that time, of improving on her successful propitiation of 
Miss Nipper, and devising some means of having little 
Florence beside her, lawfully, and without rebellion. An 
opening happened to present itself that very night. 

She had Been rung down into the glass room as usual, 
and had walked about and about it a long time, with the 
baby in her arms, when, to her great surprise and dis- 
may, Mr. Dombey came out suddenly, and stopped 
before her. 

“ Good-evening, Richards.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


49 


Just the same austere, stiff gentleman, as he had ap- 
peared to her on that first day. Such a hard-looking 
gentleman, that she involuntarily dropped her eyes and 
her courtesy at the same time. 

“ How is Master Paul, Richards ? ” 

“ Quite thriving, sir, and well.” 

“ He looks so,” said Mr. Dombey, glancing with grea 
interest at the tiny face she uncovered for his observa- 
tion, and yet affecting to be half careless of it. “ They 
give you everything you want, I hope ? ” 

“ Oh yes, thank you, sir.” 

She suddenly appended such an obvious hesitation to 
this reply, however, that Mr. Dombey, who had turned 
away, stopped, and turned round again, inquiringly. 

“ I believe nothing is so good for making children 
lively and cheerful, sir, as seeing other children play- 
ing about ’em,” observed Polly, taking courage. 

“ I think I mentioned to you, Richards, when you 
came here,” said Mr. Dombey with a frown, “that I 
wished you to see as little of your family as possible. 
You can continue your walk if you please.” 

With that, he disappeared into his inner room ; and 
Polly had the satisfaction of feeling that he had thorough- 
ly misunderstood her object, and that she had fallen into 
disgrace without the least advancement of her purpose. 

Next night, she found him walking about the conser- 
vatory when she came down. As she stopped at the 
door, checked by this unusual sight, and uncertain 
whether to advance or retreat, he called her in. 

“ If you really think that sort of society is good for 
the child,” he said sharply, as if there had been no inter- 
val since she proposed it, “ where’s Miss Florence ? ” 

“ Nothing could be better than Miss Florence, sir,’ 

VOL. i. 4 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


5U 

Baid Polly eagerly, “but I understood from her little 
maid that they were not to ” — 

Mr. Dombey rang the bell, and walked till it was 
answered. 

“ Tell them always to let Miss Florence be with Rich- 
ards when she chooses, and go out with her, and so forth. 
Tell them to let the children be together, when Richards 
wishes it.” 

The iron was now hot, and Richards striking on it 
boldly — it was a good cause and she was bold in it, 
though instinctively afraid of Mr. Dombey — requested 
that Miss Florence might be sent down then and there, 
to make friends with her little brother. 

She feigned to be dandling the child as the servant 
retired on this errand, but she thought she saw that Mr. 
Dombey’s color changed ; that the expression of his face 
quite altered ; that he turned hurriedly, as if to gainsay 
what he had said, or she had said, or both, and was only 
deterred by very shame. 

And she was right. The last time he had seen his 
slighted child, there had been that in the sad embrace 
between her and her dying mother, which was at once 
a revelation and a reproach to him. Let him be ab- 
sorbed as he would in the Son on whom he built such 
high hopes, he could not forget that closing scene. He 
could not forget that he had had no part in it. That, at 
the bottom of its clear depths of tenderness and truth, lay 
those two figures clasped in each other's arms, while he 
stood on the bank above them, looking down a mere 
spectator — not a sharer with them — quite shut out. 

Unable to exclude these things from his remembrance, 
or to keep his mind free from such imperfect shapes of 
the meaning with which they were fraught, as were able 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


51 


to make themselves visible to him through the mist of 
his pride, his previous feelings of indifference towards 
little Florence changed into an uneasiness of an extraor- 
dinary kind. He almost felt as if she watched and dis- 
trusted him. As if she held the clew to something se- 
cret in his breast, of the nature of which he was hardly 
informed himself. As if she had an innate knowledge of 
one jarring and discordant string within him, and her 
very breath could sound it. 

His feeling about the child had been negative from 
her birth. He had never conceived an aversion to her ; 
it had not been worth his while or in his humor. She 
had never been a positively disagreeable object to him. 
But now he was ill at ease about her. She troubled his 
peace. He would have preferred to put her idea aside 
altogether, if he had known how. Perhaps — who shall 
decide on such mysteries ? — he was afraid that he 
might come to hate her. 

When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr. 
Dombey stopped in his pacing up and down, and looked 
towards her. Had he looked with greater interest and 
with a father’s eye, he might have read in her keen 
glance the impulses and fears that made her waver ; the 
passionate desire to run clinging to him, crying, as she 
hid her face in his embrace, “ Oh, father, try to love me ! 
there’s no one else ! ” the dread of a repulse ; the fear 
of being too bold, and of offending him ; the pitiable 
need in which she stood of some assurance and encour- 
agement ; and how her overcharged young heart was 
wandering to find some natural resting-place, for its sor- 
row and affection. 

Butrhe saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irres- 
olutely at the door and look towards him ; and he saw 
no more. 


52 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Come in,” he said, “ come in : what is the child 
afraid of ? ” 

She came in ; and after glancing round her for a 
moment with an uncertain air, stood pressing her small 
hands hard together, close within the dooi. 

“ Come here, Florence,” said her father, coldly. “ Do 
you know who I am ? ” 

“ Yes, papa.” 

“ Have you nothing to say to me ? ” 

The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them 
quickly to his face, were frozen by the expression it 
wore. She looked down again, and put out her trem- 
bling hand. 

Mr. Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood 
looking down upon her for a moment as if he knew as 
little as the child, what to say or do. 

“ There ! Be a good girl,” he said, patting her on the 
head, and regarding her as it were by stealth with a 
disturbed and doubtful look. “ Go to Richards ! Go ! ” 

His little daughter hesitated for another instant as 
though she would have clung about him still, or had 
some lingering hope that he might raise her in his arms 
and kiss her. She looked up in his face once more. He 
thought how like her expression was then, to what it had 
been when she looked round at the doctor — that night 
— and instinctively dropped her hand and turned away. 

It was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at 
a great disadvantage in her father’s presence. It was 
not only a constraint upon the child’s mind, but even 
upon the natural grace and freedom of her actions. 
Still Polly persevered with all the better heart for see 
ing this ; and, judging of Mr. Dombey by herself, had 
great confidence in the mute appeal of poor little 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


53 


Florence’s mourning-dress. “ It’s hard indeed,” thought 
Polly, “ if he takes only to one little motherless child, 
when he has another, and that a girl, before his eyes.” 

So, Polly kept her before his eyes, as long as she 
could, and managed so well with little Paul, as to make 
it very plain that he was all the livelier for his sister’s 
company. When it was time to withdraw up-stairs 
again, she Would have sent Florence into the inner 
room to say good-night to her father, but the child was 
timid and drew back ; and when she urged her again, 
said, spreading her hands before her eyes, as if to shut 
out her own unworthiness, “ Oh no, no ! He don’t want 
me. He don’t want me ! ” 

The little altercation between them had attracted the 
notice of Mr. Dombey, who inquired from the table 
where he was sitting at his wine, what the matter was. 

“Miss Florence was afraid of interrupting, sir, if she 
came in to say good-night,” said Richards. 

“ It doesn’t matter,” returned Mr. Dombey. “ You 
can let her come and go without regarding me.” 

The child shrunk as she listened — and was gone, be- 
fore her huiftble friend looked round again. 

However, Polly triumphed not a little in the success 
of her well-intentioned scheme, and in the address with 
which she had brought it to bear : whereof she made a 
full disclosure to Spitfire when she was once more safely 
intrenched up-stairs. Miss Nipper received that proof 
of her confidence, as well as the prospect of their free 
association for the future, rather coldly, and was any- 
thing but enthusiastic in her demonstrations of joy. 

“ I thought you would have been pleased,” said Polly. 

“ Oh yes, Mrs. Richards, I’m very well pleased, thank 
you,” returned Susan, who had suddenly become so very 


54 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


upright that she seemed to have put an additional bone 
in her stays. 

“ You don’t show it,” said Polly. 

“ Oh ! Being only a permanency I couldn’t be ex- 
pected to show it like a temporary,” said Susan Nipper 
“ Temporaries carries it all before ’em here, I find, but 
though there’s a excellent party-wall between this house 
and the next, I mayn’t exactly like to g’o to it, Mrs. 
Richards, notwithstanding ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


5 $ 


CHAPTER IV. 

IK WHICH SOME MORE FIRST APPEARANCES ARE MADE 
ON THE STAGE OF THESE ADVENTURES. 

Though the offices of Dombey and Son were within 
the liberties of the city of London, and within hearing 
of Bow Bells, when their clashing voices were not 
drowned by the uproar in the streets, yet were there 
hints of adventurous and romantic story to be observed 
in some of the adjacent objects. Gog and Magog held 
their state within ten minutes’ walk ; the Royal Ex- 
change was close at hand ; the Bank of England with 
its vaults of gold and silver u down among the dead 
men ” underground, was their magnificent neighbor. 
Just round the corner stood the rich East India House, 
teeming with suggestions of precious stuffs and stones, 
tigers, elephants, howdahs, hookahs, umbrellas, palm- 
trees, palanquins, and gorgeous princes of a brown com- 
plexion sitting on carpets with their slippers very much 
turned up at the toes. Anywhere in the immediate 
vicinity there might be seen pictures of ships speeding 
away full sail to all parts of the world ; outfitting ware- 
houses ready to pack off anybody anywhere, fully 
equipped in half an hour ; and little timber midship- 
men in obsolete naval uniforms, eternally employed out- 
side the shop-doors of nautical instrument -makers in 
taking observations of the hackney-coaches. 


56 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Sole master and proprietor of one of these effigies — 
of that which might be called, familiarly, the woodenest 

— of that which thrust itself out above the pavement, 
right leg foremost, with a suavity the least endurable, 
and had the shoe-buckles and flapped waistcoat the least 
reconcilable to human reason, and bore at its right eye 
the most offensively disproportionate piece of machinery 

— sole master and proprietor of that midshipman, and 
proua of him too, an elderly gentleman in a Welsh wig 
had paid house-rent, taxes, and dues, for more years than 
many a full-grown midshipman of flesh and blood has 
numbered in his life ; and midshipmen who have at- 
tained a pretty green old age, have not been wanting in 
the English navy. 

The stock in trade of this old gentleman comprised 
chronometers, barometers, telescopes, compasses, charts, 
maps, sextants, quadrants, and specimens of every kind 
of instrument used in the working of a ship’s course, or 
the keeping of a ship’s reckoning, or the prosecuting of 
a ship’s discoveries. Objects in brass and glass were in 
his drawers and on his shelves, which none but the in- 
itiated could have found the top of, or guessed the use 
of, or having once examined, could have ever got back 
again into their mahogany nests without assistance. 
Everything was jammed into the tightest cases, fitted 
into the narrowest corners, fenced up behind the most 
impertinent cushions, and screwed into the acutest an- 
gles, to prevent its philosophical composure from being 
disturbed by the rolling of the sea. Such extraordinary 
precautions were taken in every instance to save room, 
and keep the thing compact ; and so much practical nav- 
igation was fitted, and cushioned, and screwed into every 
box (whether the box was a mere slab, as some were, or 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


57 


something between a cocked-hat and a star-fish, as others 
were, and those quite mild and modest boxes as com- 
pared with others) ; that the shop itself, partaking of 
the general infection, seemed almost to become a snug, 
sea-going, ship-shape concern, wanting only good sea- 
room, in the event of an unexpected launch, to work its 
way securely to any desert island in the world. 

Many minor incidents in the household life of the 
Ships’ Instrument-maker who was proud of his little 
midshipman, assisted and bore out this fancy. His ac- 
quaintance lying chiefly among ship-chandlers and so 
forth, he had always plenty of the veritable ships’ biscuit 
on his table. It was familiar with dried meats and 
tongues, possessing an extraordinary flavor of rope-yarn. 
Pickles were produced upon it, in great wholesale jars, 
with “ dealer in all kinds of Ships’ Provisions ” on the 
label ; spirits were set forth in case bottles with no 
throats. Old prints of ships with alphabetical refer- 
ences to their various mysteries, hung in frames upon 
the walls; the Tartar Frigate under weigh, was on the 
plates ; outlandish shells, seaweeds, and mosses, deco- 
rated the chimney-piece ; the little wainscoted back- 
parlor was lighted by a skylight, like a cabin. 

Here he lived too, in skipper-like state, all alone with 
his nephew Walter : a boy of fourteen who looked quite 
enough like a midshipman, to carry out the prevailing 
idea. But there it ended, for Solomon Gills himself 
(more generally called old Sol) was far from having a 
maritime appearance. To say nothing of his Welsh 
wig, which was as plain and stubborn a Welsh wig as 
ever was worn, and in which he looked like anything 
but a Rover, he was a slow, quiet-spoken, thoughtful old 
fellow, with eyes as red as if they had been small suns 


58 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


looking at you through a fog ; and a newly-awakened 
manner, such as he might have acquired by having 
stared for three or four days successively, through every 
optical instrument in his shop, and suddenly came back 
to the world again, to find it green. The only change 
ever known in his outward man, was from a complete 
suit of coffee-color cut very square, and ornamented 
with glaring buttons, to the same suit of coffee-color 
minus the inexpressibles, which were then of a pale 
nankeen. He wore a very precise shirt-frill, and car- 
ried a pair of first-rate spectacles on his forehead, and 
a tremendous chronometer in his fob, rather than doubt 
which precious possession, he would have believed in a 
conspiracy against it on the part of all the clocks and 
watches in the city, and even of the very Sun itself. 
Such as he was, such he had been in the shop and par- 
lor behind the little midshipman, for years upon years ; 
going regularly aloft to bed every night in a howling 
garret remote from the lodgers, where, when gentlemen 
of England who lived below at ease had little or no 
idea of the state of the weather, it often blew great 
guns. 

It is half-past five o’clock, and an autumn afternoon, 
when the reader and Solomon Gills become acquainted. 
Solomon Gills is in the act of seeing what time it is by 
the unimpeachable chronometer. The usual daily clear- 
ance has been making in the city for an hour or more ; 
and the human tide is still rolling westward. “ The 
streets have thinned,” as Mr. Gills says, “ very much.” 
It threatens to be wet to-night. All the weather-glasses 
m the shop are in low spirits, and the rain already 
shines upon the cocked-hat of the wooden midshipman. 

44 Where’s Walter, I wonder!” said Solomon Gills. 


DOMBEY AND SON 


59 


after he had carefully put up the chronometer again. 
“ Here’s dinner been ready half an hour, and no Wai- 
ter!” 

Turning round upon his stool behind the counter, Mr. 
Gills looked out among the instruments in the window, 
to see if his nephew might be crossing the road. No. 
He was not among the bobbing umbrellas, and he cer- 
tainly was not the newspaper-boy in the oilskin cap who 
was slowly working his way along the piece of brass out- 
side, writing his name over Mr. Gills’ name with his 
forefinger. 

“ If I didn’t know he was too fond' of me to make a 
run of it, and go and enter himself aboard ship against 
my wishes, I should begin to be fidgety,” said Mr. Gills, 
tapping two or three weather-glasses with his knuckles. 
“ I really should. All in the Downs, eh ! Lots of 
moisture ! Well ! it’s wanted.” 

“ I believe,” said Mr. Gills, blowing the dust off the 
glass top of a compass case, “ that you don’t point more 
direct and due to the back-parlor than the boy’s incli- 
nation does after all. And the parlor couldn’t bear 
slraighter either. Due north. Not the twentieth part 
of a point either way.” 

“ Halloa, Uncle Sol ! ” 

“ Halloa, my boy ! ” cried the Instrument-maker, turn- 
ing briskly round. “ What ! you are here, are you ! ” 

A cheerful-looking, merry boy, fresh with running 
home in the rain ; fair-faced, bright-eyed, and curly- 
haired. 

“ Well, uncle, how have you got on without me all 
day ! Is dinner ready ? I’m so hungry.” 

“ As to getting on,” said Solomon, good-naturedly, " it 
would be odd if I couldn’t get on without a young dog 


60 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


like you a great deal better than with you. As to dinner 
being ready, it’s been ready this half hour and waiting 
for you. As to being hungry, I am ! ” 

44 Come along then, uncle ! ” cried the boy. 44 Hurrah 
for the admiral ! ” 

44 Confound the admiral ! ” returned Solomon Gills. 
44 You mean the Lord Mayor.” 

44 No I don’t ! ” cried the boy. 44 Hurrah for the ad- 
miral. Hurrah for the admiral ! For — ward ! ” 

At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its 
wearer were borne without resistance into the back-par- 
lor, as at the head*, of a boarding-party of five hundred 
men ; and uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily 
engaged on a fried sole with a prospect of steak to 
follow. 

44 The Lord Mayor, Wally,” said Solomon, 44 forever! 
No more admirals. The Lord Mayor’s your admiral.” 

44 Oh, is he though ! ” said the boy, shaking his head. 
“’Why, the Sword Bearer’s better than him. He draws 
his sword sometimes.” 

44 And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains,” 
returned the uncle. 44 Listen to me Wally, listen to me. 
Look on the mantel-shelf.” 

44 Why who has cocked my silver mug up there, on 
a nail ! ” exclaimed the boy. 

44 1 have,” said his uncle. 44 No more mugs now. 
We must begin to drink out of glasses to-day, Walter. 
We are men of business. We belong to the city. We 
started in life this morning.” 

44 Well, uncle,” said the boy, 44 I’ll drink out of any- 
thing you like, so long as I can drink to you. Here’s 
to you, Uncle Sol, and hurrah for the” — 

44 Lord Mayor,” interrupted the old man. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


61 


“ For the Lord Major, Sheriffs, Common Council; 
and Livery,” said the boy. “ Long life to ’em ! ” 

The uncle nodded his head with great satisfaction. 
“ And now,” he said, “ let’s hear something about the 
Firm.” 

“ Oh ! there’s not much to be told about the Firm, 
uncle,” said the boy, plying his knife and fork- “ It’s 
a precious dark set of offices, and in the room where 
I sit, there’s a high fender, and an iron safe, and some 
cards about ships that are going to sail, and an alma- 
nac, and some desks and stools, and an ink-bottle, and 
some books, and some boxes, and a lot of cobwebs, and 
in one of ’em, just over my head, a shrivelled-up blue- 
bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so long.” 

“ Nothing else ? ” said the uncle. 

“ No, nothing else, except an old bird-cage (I wonder 
how that ever came there !) and a coal-scuttle.” 

“ No bankers’ books, or check books, or bills, or such 
tokens of wealth rolling in from day to day ? ” said old 
Sol, looking wistfully at his nephew out of the fog that 
always seemed to hang about him, and laying an unc- 
tuous emphasis upon the words. 

“ Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose,” returned his 
nephew carelessly ; “ but all that sort of thing’s in Mr. 
Carker’s room, or Mr. Morfin’s, or Mr. Dorn bey’s.” 

“ Has Mr. Dombey been there to-day ? ” inquired the 
uncle. 

“Oh yes! In and out all day.” 

“ He didn’t take any notice of you, I suppose.” 

“ Yes he did. He walked up to my seat, — I wish 
he wasn’t so solemn and stiff, uncle — and said 4 Oh ! 
you are the son of Mr. Gills the Ships’ Instrument- 
maker.’ ‘Nephew, sir,’ I said. 4 1 said nephew, boy,’ 


62 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


said he. But I could take my oath he said son, 
uncle 

“ You’re mistaken I dare say. It’s no matter.” 

“ No, it’s no matter, but he needn’t have been so 
sharp, I thought. There was no harm in it though he 
did say son. Then he told me that you had spoken to 
him about me, and that he had found me employment 
in the House accordingly, and that I was expected to 
be attentive and punctual, and then he went away. I 
thought he didn’t seem to like me much.” 

“ You mean, I suppose,” observed the Instrument- 
maker, “that you didn’t seem to like him much.” 

“ Well, uncle,” returned the boy, laughing. “ Per- 
haps so ; I never thought of that.” 

Solomon looked a little graver as he finished his din- 
ner, and glanced from time to time at the boy’s bright 
face. When dinner was done, and the cloth was cleared 
away (the entertainment had been brought from a neigh- 
boring eating-house), he lighted a candle, and went down 
below into a little cellar, while his nephew, standing on 
the mouldy staircase, dutifully held the light. After 
a moment’s groping here and there, he presently re- 
turned with a very ancient-looking bottle, covered with 
dust and dirt. 

“ Why, Uncle Sol ! ” said the boy, “ what are you 
about ! that’s the wonderful Madeira ! — there’s only 
one more bottle ! ” 

Uncle Sol nodded his head, implying that hs knew 
very well what he was about; and having drawn the 
cork in solemn silence, filled two glasses and set the 
bottle and a third clean glass on the table. 

“You shall drink the other bottle, Wally,” he said, 
w when you come to good fortune ; when you are a 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


63 


thriving, respected, happy man ; when the start in life 
you have made to-day shall have brought you, as I 
pray Heaven it may ! — to a smooth part of the course 
you have to run, my child. My love to you ! ” 

Some of the fog that hung about old Sol seemed to 
have got into his throat ; for he spoke huskily. His 
hand shook too, as he clinked his glass against his 
nephew’s. But having once got the wine to his lips, 
he tossed it off like a man, and smacked them after- 
wards. 

“ Dear uncle,” said the boy, affecting to make light 
of it, while the tears stood in his eyes, “ for the honor 
you have done me, et cetera, et cetera. I shall now 
beg to propose Mr. Solomon Gills with three times 
three and one cheer more. Hurrah ! and you’ll return 
thanks, uncle, when we drink the last bottle together; 
won’t you ? ” 

They clinked their glasses again ; and Walter, who 
was hoarding his wine, took a sip of it, and held the 
glass up to his eye with as critical an air as he could 
possibly assume. 

His uncle sat looking at him for some time in silence. 
When their eyes at last met, he began at once to pur- 
sue the theme that had occupied his thoughts, aloud, 
as if he had been speaking all the while. 

“ You see, Walter,” he said, in truth this business 
is merely a habit with me. I am so accustomed to the 
habit that I could hardly live if I relinquished it : bu 
theie’s nothing doing, nothing doing. When that uni- 
form was worn,” 5 pointing out towards the little mid- 
shipman, w , then indeed, fortunes were to be made, and 
were made. But competition, competition new inven- 
tion, new invention — alteration, alteration the world’s 


64 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


gone past me. I hardly know where I am myself ; 
much less where my customers are.” 

“Never mind ’em uncle!” 

“ Since you came home from weekly boarding-school 
at Peckham, for instance — and that’s ten days,” said 
Solomon, “ I don’t remember more than one person that 
has come into the shop.” 

“Tw) uncle, don’t you recollect? There was the 
man who came to ask for change for a sovereign ” — 

“ That’s the one,” said Solomon. 

“ Why uncle ! don’t you call the woman anybody, who 
came to ask the way to Mile-end Turnpike?” 

“ Oh ! its true,” said Solomon, “ I forgot her. Two 
persons.” 

“ To be sure, they didn’t buy anything,” cried the 
boy. 

“ No. They didn’t buy anything,” said Solomon, 
quietly. 

“ Nor want anything,” cried the boy. 

“ No. If they had, they’d gone to another shop,” 
said Solomon, in the same tone. 

“ But there were two of ’em uncle,” cried the boy, 
as if that were a great triumph. “ You said only one.” 

“ Well, Wally,” resumed the old man, after a short 
pause : “ not being like the savages who came on Robin- 
son Crusoe’s island, we can’t live on a man who asks 
or. change for a sovereign, and a woman who inquires 
he way to Mile-end Turnpike. As I said just now, 
(lie world has gone past me. I don’t blame it; but I 
no longer understand it. Tradesmen are not the same 
as they used to be, apprentices are not the same, busi- 
ness is not the same, business commodities are not the 
same. Seven eighths of my stock is old-fashioned. I 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


65 


am an old-fashioned man in an old-fashioned shop, in a 
street that is not the same as I remember it. I have 
fallen behind the time, and am too old to catch it again. 
Even the noise it makes a long way ahead, confuses me.” 

Walter was going to speak, but his uncle held up his 
band. 

“ Therefore Wally — therefore it is that I am anxious 
you shtuld be early in the busy world, and on the 
world’s track. I am only the ghost of this business — 
its substance vanished long ago : and when I die, its 
ghost will be laid. As it is clearly no inheritance for 
you then, I have thought it best to use for your ad- 
vantage, almost the only fragment of the old connection 
that stands by me, through long habit. Some people 
suppose me to be wealthy. I wish for your sake, they 
were right. But whatever I leave behind me, or what- 
ever I can give you, you in such a house as Dombey’s 
are in the road to use well and make the most of. Be 
diligent, try to like it my dear boy, work for a steady 
independence, and be happy ! ” 

“ I’ll do everything I can, uncle, to deserve your affec- 
tion. Indeed I will,” said the boy, earnestly. 

“ I know it,” said Solomon. “ I am sure of it,” and 
he applied himself to a second glass of the old Madeira, 
with increased relish. “ As to the sea,” he pursued, 
“ that’s well enough in fiction, Wally, but it won’t do in 
(act : it won’t do at all. It’s natural enough that you 
should think about it, associating it with all these famil- 
iar things ; but it won’t do, it won’t do.” 

Solomon Gills rubbed his hands with an air of stealthy 
enjoyment, as he talked of the sea, though ; and looked 
on the seafaring objects about him with inexpressible 
complacency. 

VOL. i. 


5 


66 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


' c Think of this wine for instance,” said old Sol, 
“ which has been to the East Indies and back, I’m not 
able to say how often, and has been once round the 
world. Think of the pitch-dark nights, the roaring 
winds, and rolling seas : ” 

“ The thunder, lightning, rain, hail, storms of all 
kinds,” said the boy. 

“ To be sure,” said Solomon, — “ that this wine has 
passed through. Think what a straining and creaking 
of timbers and masts : what a whistling and howling of 
the gale through ropes and rigging : ” 

“ What a clambering aloft of men, vying with each 
other who shall lie out first upon the yards to furl the 
icy sails, while the ship rolls and pitches, like mad ! ” 
cried his nephew. 

“ Exactly so,” said Solomon : “ has gone on, over the 
old cask that held this wine. Why, when the Charming 
Sally went down in the ” — 

“ In the Baltic Sea, in the dead of night ; five-and- 
twenty minutes past twelve when the captain’s watch 
stopped in his pocket ; he lying dead against the main- 
mast — on the fourteenth of February, seventeen forty- 
nine ! ” cried Walter, with great animation. 

“Ay, to be sure ! ” cried old Sol, “ quite right ! Then, 
there were five hundred casks of such wine aboard ; and 
all hands (except the first mate, first lieutenant, two sea- 
men, and a lady, in a leaky boat), going to work to stave 
the casks, got drunk and died drunk, singing ‘ Rule Bri- 
tannia,’ when she settled and went down, and ending 
with one awful scream in chorus.” 

“But when the George the Second drove ashore, 
uncle, on the coast of Cornwall, in a dismal gale two 
hours before daybreak, on the fourth of March, ’seventy- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


67 


one, she had near two hundred horses aboard ; and the 
horses breaking loose down below, early in the gale, and 
tearing to and fro, and trampling each other to death, 
made such noises, and set up such human cries, that the 
crew believing the ship to be full of devils, some of the 
best men, losing heart and head, went overboard in de- 
spair, and only two were left alive, at last, to tell the 
tale.” 

“And when,” said old Sol, “ when the Polyphemus” — 

“Private West India Trader, burden, three hundred 
and fifty tons, Captain, John Brown of Deptford. Own- 
ers, Wiggs and Co.,” cried Walter. 

“ The same,” said Sol ; “ when she took fire, four days’ 
sail with a fair wind out of Jamaica Harbor, in the 
night ” — 

“ There were two brothers on board,” interposed his 
nephew, speaking very fast and loud, “ and there not be- 
ing room for both of them in the only boat that wasn’t 
swamped, neither of them would consent to go, until the 
elder took the younger by the waist, and flung him in. 
And then the younger, rising in the boat, cried out, 
‘ Dear Edward, think of your promised wife at home. 
I’m only a boy. No one waits at home for me. Leap 
down into my place ! ’ and flung himself in the sea ! ” 

The kindling eye and heightened color of the boy, 
who had risen from his seat in the earnestness of what 
he said and felt, seemed to remind old Sol of something 
he had forgotten, or that his encircling mist had hitherto 
shut out. Instead of proceeding with any more anec- 
dotes, as he had evidently intended but a moment be- 
fore, he gave a short dry cough, and said, “ Well ! sup- 
pose we change the subject.” 

The truth was, that the simple-minded uncle in hia 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


*8 

secret attraction towards the marvellous and adventurous 

of which he was, in some sort, a distant relation, by his 
trade — had greatly encouraged the same attraction in 
the nephew ; and that everything that had ever been put 
before the boy to deter him from a life of adventure, had 
had the usual unaccountable effect of sharpening his 
taste for it. This is invariable. It would seem as if 
there never was a book written, or a story told, expressly 
with the object of keeping boys on shore, which did not 
lure and charm them to the ocean, as a matter of course. 

But an addition to the little party now made its ap- 
pearance, in the shape of a gentleman in a wide suit of 
blue, with a hook instead of a hand attached to his right 
wrist ; very bushy black eyebrows ; and a thick stick in 
his left hand, covered all over (like his nose) with knobs. 
He wore a loose black silk handkerchief round his neck, 
and such a very large coarse shirt collar, that it looked 
like a small sail. He was evidently the person for whom 
the spare wineglass was intended, and evidently knew 
it ; for having taken off his rough outer coat, and hung 
up, on a particular peg behind the door, such a hard 
glazed hat as a sympathetic person’s head might ache at 
the sight of, and which left a red rim round his own 
forehead as if he had been wearing a tight basin, he 
brought a chair to where the clean glass was, and sat 
himself down behind it. He was usually addressed as 
Captain, this visitor ; and had been a pilot, or a skipper, 
or a privateersman, or all three perhaps ; and was a very 
salt-looking man indeed. 

His face, remarkable for a brown solidity, brightened 
as he shook hands with uncle and nephew ; but he 
seemed to be of a laconic disposition, and merely said : 

“ I low goes it?” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


69 


“ All well,” said Mr. Gills, pushing the bottle towards 
him. 

He took it up, and having surveyed and smelt it, said 
with extraordinary expression : 

“The?” 

“ The” returned the Instrument-maker. 

Upcri that he whistled as he filled his glass, and seemed 
to think they were making holiday indeed. 

u Wal’r ! ” he said, arranging his hair (which was thin) 
with his hook, and then pointing it at the Instrument- 
maker, “ Look at him ! Love ! Honor ! And Obey ! 
Overhaul your catechism till you find that passage, and 
when found turn the leaf down. Success, my boy ! ” 

He was so perfectly satisfied both with his quotation 
and his reference to it, that he could not help repeating 
the words again in a low voice, and saying he had for- 
gotten ’em these forty year. 

“But I never wanted two or three words in my life 
that I didn’t know where to lay my hand upon ’em, 
Gills,” he observed. “ It comes of not wasting lan- 
guage as some do ” 

The reflection perhaps reminded him that he had bet- 
ter, like young Norval’s father, “ increase his store.” At 
any rate he became silent, and remained so, until old Sol 
went out into the shop to light it up, when he turned to 
Walter, and said, without any introductory remark : — 

“ I suppose he could make a clock if he tried ? ” 

“ 1 shouldn’t wonder, Captain Cuttle,” returned the 
boy. 

“And it would go!” said Captain Cuttle, making a 
species of serpent in the air with his hook. “ Lord, how 
that clock would go ! ” 

For a moment or two he seemed quite lost in contem- 


70 


DOM13EY AND SON. 


plating the pace of this ideal timepiece, and sat looking 
at the boy as if his face were the dial. 

“ But he’s chock-full of science,” he observed, waving 
his hook towards the stock-in-trade. “ Look ’ye here ! 
Here’s a collection of ’em. Earth, air, or water. It’s 
all one. Only say where you’ll have it. Up in a bal- 
loon ? There you are. Down in a bell ? There you 
are. „ D’ye want to put the North Star in a pair of 
scales, and weigh it. He’ll do it for you.” 

It may be gathered from these remarks that Captain 
Cuttle’s reverence for the stock of instruments was pro- 
found, and that his philosophy knew little or no distinc- 
tion between trading in it and inventing it. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, with a sigh, “ it’s a fine thing to un- 
derstand ’em. And yet it’s a fine thing not to under- 
stand ’em. I hardly know which is best. It’s so com- 
fortable to sit here and feel that you might be weighed, 
measured, magnified, electrified, polarized, played the 
very devil with : and never know how.” 

Nothing short of the wonderful Madeira, combined 
with the occasion (which rendered it desirable to im- 
prove and expand Walter’s mind), could have ever 
loosened his tongue to the extent of giving utterance 
to this prodigious oration. He seemed quite amazed 
himself at the manner in which it opened up to view the 
sources of the taciturn delight he had had in eating Sun- 
day dinners in that parlor for ten years. Becoming a 
sadder and a wiser man, he mused and held his peace.” 

“ Come ! ” cried the subject of his admiration, return- 
ing. “ Before you have your glass of grog, Ned, we 
must finish the bottle.” 

“ Stand by ! ” said Ned, filling his glass. “ Give the 
boy some more.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


71 


w No more, tliank’e, uncle ! ” 

“Yes, yes,’’ said Sol, “a little more. We’ll finish the 
bottle, to the House, Ned — Walter’s house. Why it 
may be his house one of these days, in part. Who 
knows ? Sir Richard Whittington married his master’s 
daughter.” 

“ ‘ Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, 
and when you are old you will never depart from it,’ ” 
interposed the Captain. u Wal’r ! Overhaul the book, 
my lad.” 

“ And although Mr. Dombey hasn’t a daughter,” Sol 
began. 

“ Yes, yes, he has, uncle,” said the boy, reddening and 
laughing. 

“ Has he ? ” cried the old man. “ Indeed I think he 
has too.” 

“ Oh ! I know he has,” said the boy. “ Sona® of ’em 
were talking about it in the office to-day. And they do 
say, uncle and Captain Cuttle,” lowering his voice, “ that 
he’s taken a dislike to her, and that she’s left, unnoticed, 
among the servants, and that bis mind’s so set all the 
while upon having his son in the House, that although 
he’s only a baby now he is going to have balances struck 
oftener than formerly, and the books kept closer than 
they used to be, and has even been seen (when he 
thought he wasn’t) walking in the Docks, looking at 
his ships and property and all that, as if he was exulting 
like, over what he and his son will possess together. 
That’s what they say. Of course I don’t know.” 

“ He knows all about her already, you see,” said the 
Instrument-maker. 

“ Nonsense, uncle,” cried the boy, still reddening and 
laughing, boy-like. “ How can I help hearing what 
they tell me ? ” 


72 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ The son’s a little in our way at present, I’m afraid, 
Ned,” said the old man, humoring the joke. 

u Very much,” said the captain. 

* Nevertheless, we’ll drink him,” pursued Sol. “ So, 
here’s to Dombey and Son.” 

“ Oh, very well, uncle,” said the boy, merrily. “ Since 
you have introduced the mention of her, and have con- 
nected me with her, and have said that I know all about 
her, I shall make bold to amend the toast. So here’s tc 
Dombey — and Son — and Daughter ! ” 


DOMBET AND SON. 


73 


CHAPTER V. 

PAUL’S PROGRESS AND CHRISTENING. 

Little Paul, suffering no contamination from the 
blood of the Toodles, grew stouter and stronger every- 
day. Every day, too, he was more and more ardently 
cherished by Miss Tox, whose devotion was so far ap- 
preciated by Mr. Dombey that he began to regard her 
as a woman of great natural good sense, whose feelings 
did her credit and deserved encouragement. He was so 
lavish of this condescension, that he not only bowed to 
her, in a particular manner, on several occasions, but 
even intrusted such stately recognitions of her to his 
sister as “ pray tell your friend, Louisa, that she is very 
good,” or “mention to Miss Tox, Louisa, that I am 
obliged to her ; ” specialities which made a deep impres- 
sion on the lady thus distinguished. 

Miss Tox was often in the habit of assuring Mrs. 
Chick, that “nothing could exceed her interest in all 
connected with the development of that sweet child ; ” 
and an observer of Miss Tox’s proceedings might have 
inferred so much without declaratory confirmation. She 
would preside over the innocent repasts of the young 
heir, with ineffable satisfaction, almost with an air of 
joint proprietorship with Richards in the entertainment. 
At the little ceremonies of the bath and toilet, she 
assisted with enthusiasm. The administration of infan- 


74 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


tine doses of physic awakened all the active sympathy 
of her character ; and being on one occasion secreted 
in a cupboard (whither she had fled in modesty), when 
Mr. Dombey was introduced into the nursery by his 
sister, to behold his son, in the course of preparation 
for bed, taking a short walk up-hill over Richards’s 
gown, in a short and airy linen jacket, Miss Tox was 
so transported beyond the ignorant present as to be 
unable to refrain from crying out, “Is he not beauti- 
ful, Mr. Dombey ! Is he not a Cupid, sir ! ” and then 
almost sinking behind the closet-door with confusion and 
blushes. 

“ Louisa,” said Mr. Dombey, one day, to his sister, 
“ I really think I must present your friend with some 
little token, on the occasion of Paul’s christening. She 
has exerted herself so warmly in the child’s behalf 
from the first, and seems to understand her position so 
thoroughly (a very rare merit in this world, I am sorry 
to say), that it would really be agreeable to me to notice 
her.” 

Let it be no detraction from the merits of Miss Tox, 
to hint that in Mr. Dombey’s eyes, as in some others 
that occasionally see the light, they only achieved that 
mighty piece of knowledge, the understanding of their 
own position, who showed a fitting reverence for his. 
It was not so much their merit that they knew them- 
selves, as that they knew him, and bowed low before him* 

“ My dear Paul,” returned his sister, “ you do Miss 
Tox but justice, as a man of your penetration was surq, 
I knew, to do. I believe if there are three words in 
the English language for which she has a respect 
amounting almost to veneration, those words are, Dora 
bey and Son.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


75 


“ Well,” said Mr. Dombey, u I believe it. It does 
Miss Tox credit.” 

“ And as to anything in the shape of a token, my dear 
Paul,” pursued his sister, “ all I can say is that anything 
you give Miss Tox will be hoarded and prized, I am 
sure, like a relic. But there is a way, my dear Paul, 
of showing your sense of Miss Tox’s friendliness in a 
still more flattering and acceptable manner, if you should 
be so inclined.” 

“ How is that ? ” asked Mr. Dombey. 

“ Godfathers, of course,” continued Mrs. Chick, “ are 
important in point of connection and influence.” 

“ I don’t know why they should be, to my son,” said 
Mr. Dombey coldly. 

“ Very true, my dear Paul,” retorted Mrs. Chick, 
with an extraordinary show of animation, to cover the 
suddenness of her conversion ; “ and spoken like your- 
self. I might have expected nothing else from you. I 
might have known that such would have been your 
opinion. Perhaps ; ” here Mrs. Chick flattered again, 
as not quite comfortably feeling her way ; “ perhaps that 
is a reason why you might have the less objection to 
allowing Miss Tox to be godmother to the dear thing, 
if it were only as deputy and proxy for some one else. 
That it would be received as a great honor and distinc- 
tion, Paul, I need not say.” 

“ Louisa,” said Mr. Dombey, after a short pause, “ it 
is not to be supposed ” — 

“ Certainly not,” cried Mrs. Chick, hastening to antici- 
pate a refusal, “ I never thought it was.” 

Mr. Dombey looked at her impatiently. 

“ Don’t flurry me, my dear Paul,” said his sister $ 
* for that destroys me. I am far from strong. I 


76 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


have not been quite myself, since poor dear Fanny 
departed.” 

Mr. Dombey glanced at the pocket-handkerchief 
which his sister applied to her eyes and resumed: — 

“ It is not to be supposed, I say ” — 

“And I say,” murmured Mrs. Chick, “that I never 
thought it was.” 

“ Good Heaven, Louisa ! ” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ No, my dear Paul,” she remonstrated with tearful 
dignity, “ I must really be allowed to speak. I am not 
so clever, or so reasoning, or so eloquent, or so anything, 
as you are. I know that very well. So much the worse 
for me. But if they were the last words I had to utter 
— and last words should be very solemn to you and me, 
Paul, after poor dear Fanny — I should still say I never 
thought it was. And what is more,” added Mrs. Chick 
with increased dignity, as if she had withheld her crush- 
ing argument until now, “ I never did think it was.” 

Mr. Dombey walked to the window and back again. 

“ It is not to be supposed, Louisa,” he said (Mrs. 
Chick had nailed her colors to the mast, and repeated 
“ I know it isn’t,” but he took no notice of it), “ but 
that there are many persons who, supposing that I rec- 
ognized any claim at all in such a case, have a claim 
upon me superior to Miss Tox’s. But I do not. I rec- 
ognize no such thing. Paul and myself will be able, 
when the time comes, to hold our own — the house, in 
other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain 
its o\in, and hand down its own of itself, and without 
any such commonplace aids. The kind of foreign help 
which people usually seek for their children, I can afford 
to despise ; being above it, I hope. So that Paul’s in- 
fancy and childhood pass away well, and I see him 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


77 


becoming qualified without waste of time for the career 
on which he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He 
will make what powerful friends he pleases in after-life, 
when he is actively maintaining — and extending, if that 
is possible — the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until 
then, I am enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I 
have no wish that people should step in between us. I 
would much rather show my sense of the obliging con- 
duct of a deserving person like your friend. Therefore 
let it be so ; and your husband and myself will do well 
enough for the other sponsors, I dare say.” 

In the course of these remarks, delivered with great 
majesty and grandeur, Mr. Dombey had truly revealed 
the secret feelings of his breast. An indescribable dis- 
trust of anybody stepping in between himself and his son; 
a haughty dread of having any rival or partner in the 
boy’s respect and deference ; a sharp misgiving, recently 
acquired, that he was not infallible in his power of bend- 
ing and binding human wills ; as sharp a jealousy of any 
second check or cross ; these were, at that time, the mas- 
ter-keys of his soul. In all his life, he had never made 
a friend. His cold and distant nature had neither sought 
one, nor found one. And now when that nature concen- 
trated its whole force so strongly on a partial scheme of 
parental interest and ambition, it seemed as if its icy 
current, instead of being released by this influence, and 
Tunning clear and free, had thawed for but an instant 
to admit its burden, and then frozen with it into one 
unyielding block. 

Elevated thus to the godmothership of little Paul, in 
virtue of her insignificance, Miss Tox was from that 
hour chosen and appointed to office ; and Mr. Dombey 
further signified his pleasure that the ceremony, already 


78 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


long delaytd, should take place without further postpone- 
ment. His sister, who had been far from anticipating so 
signal a success, withdrew as soon as she could, to com- 
municate it to her best of friends ; and Mr. Dombey was 
left alone in his library. 

There was anything but solitude in the nursery ; for 
there, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox were enjoying a social 
evening, so much to the disgust of Miss Susan Nipper 
that that young lady embraced every opportunity of 
making wry faces behind the door. Her feelings were 
so much excited on the occasion, that she found it indis- 
pensable to afford them this relief, even without having 
the comfort of any audience or sympathy whatever. As 
the knight-errants of old relieved their minds by carving 
their mistresses* names in deserts and wildernesses, and 
other savage places where there w r as no probability of 
there ever being anybody to read them, so did Miss Susan 
Nipper curl her snub nose into drawers and wardrobes, 
put away winks of disparagement in cupboards, shed 
derisive squints into stone pitchers, and contradict and 
call names out in the passage. 

The two interlopers, however, blissfully unconscious 
of the young lady’s sentiments, saw little Paul safe 
through all the stages of undressing, airy exercise, sup- 
per and bed ; and then sat down to tea before the fire. 
The two children now lay, through the good offices of 
Polly, in one room ; and it w r as not until the ladies w^ere 
established at their tea-table that happening to look tow- 
ards the little beds, they thought of Florence. 

“ How sound she sleeps ! ” said Miss Tox. 

“ Why, you know, my dear, she takes a good deal of 
exercise in the course of the day,” returned Mrs. Chick, 
u playing about little Paul so much.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


79 


“ She is a curious child,” said Miss Tox. 

“ My dear,” retorted Mrs. Chick, in a low voice : “ Her 
mama, all over ! ” 

“ In-deed ! ” said Miss Tox. “ Ah dear me ! ” 

A tone of most extraordinary compassion Miss Toj 
said it in, though she had no distinct idea why, excepi 
that it was expected of her. 

“ Florence will never, never, never, be a Dombey,” 
said Mrs. Chick, “ not if she lives to be a thousand 
years old.” 

Miss Tox elevated her eyebrows, and was again full 
of commiseration. 

“ I quite fret and worry myself about her,” said Mrs. 
Chick, with a sigh of modest merit. “ I really don’t see 
what is to become of her when she grows older, or what 
position she is to take. She don’t gain on her papa in 
the least. How can one expect she should, when she is 
so very unlike a Dombey ? ” 

Miss Tox looked as if she saw no way out of such a 
cogent argument as that, at all. 

“ And the child, you see,” said Mrs. Chick, in deep 
confidence, “has poor Fanny’s nature. She’ll never 
make an effort in after-life, I’ll venture to say. Never ! 
She’ll never wind and twine herself about her papa’s 
heart like ” — 

“ Like the ivy ? ” suggested Miss Tox. 

“Like the ivy,” Mrs. Chick assented. “Never! She’ll 
never glide and nestle into the bosom of her papa’s af* 
flections like — the ” — 

“ Startled fawn ? ” suggested Miss Tox. 

“ Like the startled fawn,” said Mrs. Chick. “ Never ! 
Poor Fanny ! Yet how I loved her ! ” 

“ You must not distress yourself, my dear,” said Miss 


30 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Tox, in a soothing voice. “ Now, really ! You have too 
much feeling.” 

“We have all our faults,” said Mrs. Chick, weeping 
and shaking her head. “ I dare say we have. I never 
was blind to hers. I never said I was. Far from it 
Yet how I loved her ! ” 

What a satisfaction it was to Mrs. Chick — a common 
place piece of folly enough, compared with whom her 
sister-in-law had been a very angel of womanly intelli- 
gence and gentleness — to patronize and be tender to 
the memory of that lady : in exact pursuance of her 
conduct to her in her lifetime : and to thoroughly believe 
herself, and take herself in, and make herself uncom- 
monly comfortable on the strength of her toleration ! 
What a mighty pleasant virtue toleration should be when 
we are right, to be so very pleasant when we are wrong, 
and quite unable to demonstrate how we come to be in- 
vested with the privilege of exercising it ! 

Mrs. Chick was yet drying her eyes and shaking her 
head, when Richards made bold to caution her that Miss 
Florence was awake and sitting in her bed. She had 
risen, as the nurse said, and the lashes of her eyes were 
wet with tears. But no one saw them glistening save 
Polly. No one else leant over her, and whispered 
soothing words to her, or was near enough to hear the 
flutter of her beating heart. 

“ Oh ! dear nurse ! ” said the child, looking earnestly 
up in her face, “ let me lie by my brother ! ” 

“ Why, my pet ? ” said Richards. 

“ Oh ! I think he loves me,” cried the child wildly. 
M Let me lie by him. Pray do ! ” 

Mrs. Chick interposed with some motherly words about 
going to sleep like a dear, but Florence repeated her 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


81 


supplication, with a frightened look, and in a voice 
broken by sobs and tears. 

“ I'll not wake him,” she said, covering her face and 
hanging down her head. “ TO only touch him with my 
hand, and go to sleep. Oh, pray, pray, let me lie by my 
brother, to-night, for I believe he’s fond of me ! ” 

Richards took her without a word, and carrying her 
to the little bed in which the infant was sleeping, laid 
her down by his side. She crept as near him as she 
could without disturbing his rest ; and stretching out one 
arm so that it timidly embraced his neck, and hiding her 
face on the other, over which her damp and scattered 
hair fell loose, lay motionless. 

“ Poor little thing,” said Miss Tox ; “ she has been 
dreaming, I dare say.” 

This trivial incident had so interrupted the current 
of conversation, that if was difficult of resumption ; and 
Mrs. Chick moreover had been so affected by the con- 
templation of her own tolerant nature, that she was not 
in spirits. The two friends accordingly soon made an 
end of their tea, and a servant was despatched to fetch 
a hackney cabriolet for Miss Tox. Miss Tox had great 
experience in hackney cabs, and her starting in one was 
generally a work of time, as she was systematic in the 
preparatory arrangements. 

“ Have the goodness, if you please, Towlinson,” said 
Miss Tox, “ first of all to carry out a pen and ink and 
take his number legibly.” 

“ Yes, miss,” said Towlinson. 

“ Then, if you please, Towlinson,” said Miss Tox, 
4 * have the goodness to turn the cushion. Which,” said 
Miss Tox apart to Mrs. Chick, “ is generally damp, my 
dear.” 


VOL. I. 


6 


82 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Yes, miss,” said Towlinson. 

“ I’ll trouble you also, if you please,” said Miss Tox, 
“ with this card and this shilling. He’s to drive to the 
card, and is to understand that he will not on any 
account have more than the shilling.” 

“ No, miss,” said Towlinson. 

“ And — I’m sorry to give you so much trouble, 
Towlinson,” — said Miss Tox, looking at him pensively. 

“ Not at all, miss,” said Towlinson. 

“ Mention to the man, then, if you please, TowlinLon,” 
said Miss Tox, “that the lady’s uncle is a magistrate, 
and that if he gives her any of his impertinence he will 
be punished terribly. You can pretend to say that, if 
you please, Towlinson, in a friendly way, and because 
you know it was done to another man, who died.” 

“ Certainly, miss,” said Towlinson. 

“ And now good-night to my sweet, sweet, sweet, god- 
son,” said Miss Tox, with a soft shower of kisses at each 
repetition of the adjective ; “ and Louisa, my dear friend, 
promise me to take a little something warm before you 
go to bed, and not to distress yourself ! ” 

It was with extreme difficulty that Nipper, the black- 
eyed, who looked on steadfastly, contained herself at this 
crisis, and, until the subsequent departure of Mrs. Chick. 
But the nursery being at length free of visitors, she 
made herself some recompense for her late restraint. 

“ You might keep me in a straight-waistcoat for six 
weeks,” said Nipper, “ and when I got it off I’d only be 
more aggravated, who ever heard the like of them two 
Griffins, Mrs. Richards?” 

“And then to talk of having been dreaming, poor 
dear ! ” said Poll}*. 

“ Oh you beauties ! ” cried Susan Nipper, affecting to 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


83 


salute the door by which the ladies had departed. 
* Never be a Dombey, won’t she, it’s to be hoped she 
won’t, we don’t want any more such, one’s enough.” 

“ Don’t wake the children, Susan dear,” said Polly. 

“ I’m very much beholden to you, Mrs. Richards,” 
said Susan, who was not by any means discriminating in 
her wrath, “ and really feel it as a honor to receive 
your commands, being a black slave and a mulotter 
Mrs. Richards, if there’s any other orders you can give 
me, pray mention ’em.” 

“ Nonsense ; orders,” said Polly. 

“ Oh ! bless your heart, Mrs. Richards,” cried Susan, 
“ temporaries always orders permanencies here, didn’t 
you know that, why wherever was you born, Mrs. Rich- 
ards ? But wherever you was born, Mrs. Richards,” 
pursued Spitfire, shaking her head resolutely, u and 
whenever, and however (which is best known to your- 
self), you may bear in mind, please, that it’s one thing 
to give orders, and quite another thing to take ’em. A 
person may tell a person to dive off a bridge head fore- 
most into five-and-forty feet of water, Mrs. Richards, but 
a person may be very far from diving.” 

“ There now,” said Polly, “ you’re angry because 
you’re a good little thing, and fond of Miss Florence ; 
and yet you turn round on me, because there’s nobody 
else.” 

u It’s very easy for some to keep their tempers, and 
be soft-spoken, Mrs. Richards,” returned Susan, slightly 
mollified, “ when their child’s made as much of as a 
prince, and is petted and patted till it wishes its friends 
farther, but when a sweet young pretty innocent, that 
never ought to have a cross word spoken to or of it, is 
run down, the case is very different indeed. My good- 


84 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ness gracious me, Miss Floy, you naughty, sinful child, 
if you don’t shut your eyes this minute, I’ll call in them 
hobgoblins that lives in the cock-loft to come and eat you 
up alive ! ” 

Here Miss Nipper made a horrible lowing, supposed 
to issue from a conscientious goblin of the bull species, 
impatient to discharge the severe duty of his position. 
Having further composed her young charge by covering 
her head with the bedclothes, and making three or four 
angry dabs at the pillow, she folded her arms, and 
screwed up her mouth, and sat looking at the fire for the 
rest of the evening. 

Though little Paul was said, in nursery phrase, “ to 
take a deal of notice for his age,” he took as little notice 
of all this as of the preparations for his christening on 
the next day but one ; which nevertheless went on about 
him, as to his personal apparel, and that of his sister and 
the two nurses, with great activity. Neither did he, on 
the arrival of the appointed morning, show any sense of 
its importance ; being, on the contrary, unusually in- 
clined to sleep, and unusually inclined to take it ill in his 
attendants that they dressed him to go out. 

It happened to be an iron-gray autumnal day, with a 
shrewd east wind blowing — a day in keeping with the 
proceedings. Mr. Domhey represented in himself the 
wind, the shade, and the autumn of the christening. He 
stood in his library to receive the company, as hard and 
cold as the weather ; and when he looked out through 
the glass room, at the trees in the little garden, their 
brown and yellow leaves came fluttering down, as if he 
blighted them. 

Ugh ! They were black, cold rooms ; and seemed to 
be in mourning, like the inmates of the house. The 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


65 


books precisely matched as to size, and drawn up in line, 
like soldiers, looked in their cold, hard, slippery uniforms, 
as if they had but one idea among them, and that was a 
freezer. The bookcase, glazed and locked, repudiated 
all familiarities. Mr. Pitt, in bronze on the top, with no 
trace of his celestial origin about him, guarded the un- 
attainable treasure like an enchanted Moor. A dusty 
urn at each high corner, dug up from an ancient tomb, 
preached desolation and decay, as from two pulpits ; and 
the chimney-glass, reflecting Mr. Dombey and his por- 
trait at one blow, seemed fraught with melancholy medi- 
tations. 

The stiff and stark fire-irons appeared to claim a 
nearer relationship than anything else there to Mr. 
Dombey, with his buttoned coat, his white cravat, his 
heavy gold watch-chain, and his creaking boots. But 
this was before the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Chick, his 
lawful relatives, who soon presented themselves. 

u My dear Paul,” Mrs. Chick murmured, as she em- 
braced him, “ the beginning, I hope, of many joyful 
days ! ” 

“ Thank you, Louisa,” said Mr. Dombey, grimly. 
“ How do you do, Mr. John ? ” 

“ How do you do, sir ? ” said Chick. 

He gave Mr. Dombey his hand, as if he feared it 
might electrify him. Mr. Dombey took it as if it were 
a fish, or seaweed, or some such clammy substance, and 
immediately returned it tp him with exalted politeness. 

“ Perhaps, Louisa,” said Mr. Dombey, slightly turning 
his head in his cravat, as if it were a socket, “ you would 
have preferred a fire ? ” 

“Oh, my dear Paul, no,” said Mrs. Chick, who had 
much ado to keep her teeth from chattering ; “ not for 
me. 


86 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Mr. John,” said Mr. Dombey, “ you are not sensible 
*f any chill ? ” 

Mr. John, who had already got both his hands in his 
pockets over the wrists, and was on the very threshold 
of that same canine chorus which had given Mrs. Chick 
so much offence on a former occasion, protested that he 
was perfectly comfortable. 

He added in a low voice, “ With my tiddle tol tool 
rul ” — when he was providentially stopped by Towlin- 
son, who announced : 

“ Miss Tox ! ” 

And enter that fair enslaver, with a blue nose and in- 
describably frosty face, referable to her being very thin- 
ly clad in a maze of fluttering odds and ends, to do 
honor to the ceremony. 

“ How do you do, Miss Tox ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

Miss Tox in the midst of her spreading gauzes, went 
down altogether like an opera-glass shutting up ; she 
courtesied so low, in acknowledgment of Mr. Dombey’s 
advancing a step or two to meet her. 

“ I can never forget this occasion, sir,” said Miss Tox, 
softly. “ ’Tis impossible. My dear Louisa, I can hard- 
ly believe the evidence of my senses.” 

If Miss Tox could believe the evidence of one of her 
senses, it was a very cold day. That was quite clear. 
She took an early opportunity of promoting the circu- 
lation in the tip of her nose by secretly chafing it with 
her pocket-handkerchief, lest, by its very low temper- 
ature, it should disagreeably astonish the baby when she 
came to kiss it. 

The baby soon appeared, carried in great glory by 
Richards ; while Florence, in custody of that active 
young constable, Susan Nipper, brought up the rear. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


87 


Though the whole nursery party were dressed by this 
time in lighter mourning than at first, there was enough 
in the appearance of the bereaved children to make the 
day no brighter. The baby too — it might have been 
M iss Tox’s nose — began to cry. Thereby, as it hap- 
pened, preventing Mr. Chick from the awkward fulfil- 
ment of a very honest purpose he had ; which was, to 
make much of Florence. For this gentleman, insensible 
to the superior claims of a perfect Dombey (perhaps on 
account of having the honor to be united to a Dombey 
himself, and being familiar with excellence), really liked 
her, and showed that he liked her, and was about to 
show it in his own way now, when Paul cried, and his 
helpmate stopped him short. 

“ Now Florence child ! ” said her aunt, briskly, “ what 
are you doing, love ? Show yourself to him. Engage 
his attention, my dear ! ” 

The atmosphere became, or might have become, colder 
and colder, when Mr. Dombey stood frigidly watching 
his little daughter, who, clapping her hands, and stand- 
ing on tiptoe before the throne of his son and heir, lured 
him to bend down from his high estate, and look at her. 
Some honest act of Richards’s may have aided the effect, 
but he did look down, and held his peace. As his sister 
hid behind her nurse, he followed her with his eyes ; 
and when she peeped out with a merry cry to him, he 
sprang up and crowed lustily — laughing outright when 
she ran in upon him ; and seeming to fondle her curls 
with his tiny hands, while she smothered him with kisses. 

Was Mr. Dombey pleased to see this ? He testified 
no pleasure by the relaxation of a nerve ; but outward 
tokens of anv kind of feeling were unusual with him. 
If any sunbeam stole into the '^om to light the children 


88 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


at their play, it never reached his face. He looked on 
so fixedly and coldly, that the warm light vanished even 
from the laughing eyes of little Florence, when, at last, 
they happened to meet his. 

It was a dull, gray, autumn day indeed, and in a min- 
ute’s pause and silence that took place, the leaves fell 
sorrowfully. 

“ Mr. John,” said Mr. Dombey, referring to his watch, 
and assuming his hat and gloves. “ Take my sister, if 
you please : my arm to-day is Miss Tox’s. You had better 
go first with Master Paul, Richards. Be very careful.” 

In Mr. Dombey’s carriage, Dombey and Son, Miss 
Tox, Mrs. Chick, Richards, and Florence. In a little 
carriage following it, Susan Nipper and the owner Mr. 
Chick. Susan looking out of window, without intermis- 
sion, as a relief from the embarrassment of confronting 
the large face of that gentleman, and thinking whenever 
anything rattled that he was putting up in paper an ap- 
propriate pecuniary compliment for herself. 

Once upon the road to church, Mr. Dombey clapped 
his hands for the amusement of his son. At which in- 
stance of parental enthusiasm Miss Tox was enchanted. 
But exclusive of this incident, the chief difference be- 
tween the christening party and a party in a mourning 
coach, consisted in the colors of the carriage and horses. 

Arrived at the church steps, they were received by a 
portentous beadle. Mr. Dombey dismounted first to help 
the ladies out, and standing near him at the church-door, 
looked like another beadle. A beadle less gorgeous, but 
more dreadful ; the beadle of private life : the beadle of 
our business and our bosoms. 

Miss Tox’s hand trembled as she slipped it through 
Mr. Dombey’s arm, and felt herself escorted up the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


89 


steps, preceded by a cocked hat and a Babylonian collar. 
It seemed for a moment like that other solemn institution, 
iV Wilt thou have this man, Lucretia ? ” “ Yes, I will.” 

“ Please to bring the child in quick out of the air 
there,” whispered the beadle, holding open the inner 
door of the church. 

Little Paul might have asked with Hamlet “ into my 
grave ? ” so chill and earthy was the place. The tall 
shrouded pulpit and reading-desk; the dreary perspec- 
tive of empty pews stretching away under the galleries, 
and empty benches mounting to the roof and lost in the 
shadow of the great grim organ ; the dusty matting and 
cold stone slabs ; the grisly free seats in the aisles ; and 
the damp corner by the bell-rope, where the black tres- 
sels used for funerals were stowed away, along with 
some shovels and baskets, and a coil or two of deadly- 
looking rope ; the strange, unusual, uncomfortable smell, 
and the cadaverous light ; were all in unison. It was 
a cold and dismal scene. 

“ There’s a wedding just on, sir,” said the beadle, 
“ but it’ll be over directly, if you’ll walk into the westry 
here.” 

Before he turned again to lead the way, he gave Mr. 
Dombey a bow and a half smile of recognition, importing 
that he (the beadle) remembered to have had the pleas- 
ure of attending on him when he buried his wife, and 
hoped he had enjoyed himself since. 

The very wedding looked dismal as they passed in 
front of the altar. The bride was too old and the bride- 
groom too young, and a superannuated beau with one 
eye and an eyeglass stuck in its blank companion, was 
giving away the lady, while the friends were shivering. 
In the vestry the fire was smoking; and an over-aged 


90 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and over-worked and under-paid attorney’s clerk, “ mak- 
ing a search,” was running his forefinger down the parch- 
ment pages of an immense register (one of a long series 
of similar volumes) gorged with burials. Over the fire- 
place was a ground-plan of the vaults underneath the 
church ; and Mr. Chick, skimming the literary portion 
of it aloud, by way of enlivening the company, read the 
reference to Mrs. Dombey’s tomb in full, before he could 
stop himself. 

After another cold interval, a wheezy little pew- 
opener afflicted with an asthma, appropriate to the 
church-yard, if not to the church, summoned them to 
the font. Here they waited some little time while the 
marriage-party enrolled themselves ; and meanwhile the 
wheezy little pew-opener — partly in consequence of her 
infirmity, and partly that the marriage-party might not 
forget her — went about the building coughing like a 
grampus. 

Presently the clerk (the only cheerful-looking object 
there, and he was an undertaker) came up with a jug of 
warm water, and said something, as he poured it into the 
font, about taking the chill off ; which millions of gallons 
boiling hot could not have done for the occasion. Then 
the clergyman, an amiable and mild-looking young curate, 
but obviously afraid of the baby, appeared like the princi- 
pal character in a ghost-story, “ a tall figure all in white ; ” 
at sight of whom Paul rent the air with his cries, and 
never left off again till he was taken out black in the 
face. 

Even when that event had happened, to the great re- 
lief of everybody, he was heard under the portico, during 
the rest of the ceremony, now fainter, now louder, now 
hushed, now bursting forth again with an irrepressible 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


91 


sense of his wrongs. This so distracted the attention of 
the two ladies, that Mrs. Chick was constantly deploying 
into the centre aisle, to send out messages by the pew- 
opener, while Miss Tox kept her prayer-book open at 
the Gunpowder Plot, and occasionally read responses 
from that service. 

During the whole of these proceedings, Mr. Dombey 
remained as impassive and gentlemanly as ever, and 
perhaps assisted in making it so cold, that the young 
curate smoked at the mouth as he read. The only time 
that he unbent his visage in the least, was when the 
clergyman, in delivering (very unaffectedly and simply) 
the closing exhortation, relative to the future examina- 
tion of the child by the sponsors, happened to rest his 
eye on Mr. Chick ; and then Mr. Dombey might have 
been seen to express by a majestic look, that he would 
like to catch him at it. 

It might have been well for Mr. Dombey, if he had 
thought of his own dignity a little less; and had thought 
of the great origin and purpose of the ceremony in which 
he took so formal and so stiff a part, a little more. His 
arrogance contrasted strangely with its history. 

When it was all over, he again gave his arm to Miss 
Tox, and conducted her to the vestry, where he informed 
the clergyman how much pleasure it would have given 
him to have solicited the honor of his company at dinner, 
but for the unfortunate state of his household affairs. 
The register signed, and the fees paid, and the pew- 
opener (whose cough was very bad again) remembered, 
and the beadle gratified, and the sexton (who was acci- 
dentally on the door-steps, looking with great interest at 
the weather) not forgotten, they got into the carriage 
again, and drove home in the same bleak fellowship. 


92 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


There they found Mr. Pitt turning up his nose at a 
cold collation, set forth in a cold pomp of glass and sil- 
ver, and looking more like a dead dinner lying in state 
than a social refreshment. On their arrival. Miss Tox 
produced a mug for her godson, and Mr. Chick a knife 
and fork and spoon in a case. Mr. Dombey also pro- 
duced a bracelet for Miss Tox ; and, on the receipt of 
this token, Miss Tox was tenderly affected. 

“ Mr. John,” said Mr. Dombey, “ will you take the 
bottom of the table, if you please. What have you got 
there, Mr. John ? ” 

“ I have got a cold fillet of veal here, sir,” replied Mr. 
Chick, rubbing his numbed hands hard together. “ What 
have you got there, sir ? ” 

“ This,” returned Mr. Dombey, “ is some cold prepa- 
ration of calf’s head, I think. I see cold fowls — ham 
— patties — salad — lobster. Miss Tox will do me the 
honor of taking some wine ? Champagne to Miss Tox.” 

There was a toothache in everything. The wine was 
so bitter cold that it forced a little scream from Miss 
Tox, which she had great difficulty in turning into a 
“ Hem ! ” The veal had come from such an airy pan- 
try, that the first taste of it had struck a sensation as of 
cold lead to Mr. Chick’s extremities. Mr. Dombey alone 
remained unmoved. He might have been hung up for 
sale at a Russian fair as a specimen of a frozen gentle- 
man. 

The prevailing influence was too much even for his 
sister. She made no effort at flattery or small-talk, and 
directed all her efforts to looking as warm as she cobid. 

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Chick, making a desperate 
plunge, after a long silence, and filling a glass of sherry ; 
‘ I shall drink this, if you’ll allow me, sir, to little Paul.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


93 


“Bless him ! ” murmured Miss Tox, taking a sip of 
wine. 

“ Dear little Dombey ! ” murmured Mrs. Chick. 

66 Mr. John,” said Mr. Dombey, with severe gravity, 
“ my son would feel and express himself obliged to you, 
I have no doubt, if he could appreciate the favor you 
have done him. He will prove, in time to come, I trust, 
equal to any responsibility that the obliging disposition 
of his relations and friends, in private, or the onerous 
nature of our position, in public, may impose upon him.” 

The tone in which this was said admitting of nothing 
more, Mr. Chick relapsed into low spirits and silence. 
Not so Miss Tox, who, having listened to Mr. Dombey 
with even a more emphatic attention than usual, and with 
a more expressive tendency of her head to one side, now 
leant across the table, and said to Mrs. Chick softly : — 

“ Louisa ! ” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Chick. 

“ Onerous nature of our position in public may — I 
have forgotten the exact term.” 

“ Expose him to,” said Mrs. Chick. 

“ Pardon me, my dear,” returned Miss Tox, “ I think 
not. It was more rounded and flowing. Obliging dis- 
position of relations and friends in private, or onerous 
nature of position in public — may — impose upon 
him ? ” 

“ Impose upon him, to be sure,” said Mrs. Chick. 

Miss Tox struck her delicate hands together lightly, 
in triumph ; and added, casting up her eyes, “ eloquence 
indeed ! ” 

Mr. Dombey, in the mean while, had issued orders for 
the attendance of Richards, who now entered courtesying, 
but without the baby ; Paul being asleep after the fa- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


d4 

tigues of the morning. Mr. Dombey, having delivered 
a glass of wine to this vassal, addressed her in the follow- 
ing words : Miss Tox previously settling her head on one 
Bide, and making other little arrangements for engrav- 
ing them on her heart. 

“ During the six months or so, Richards, which have 
seen you an inmate of this house, you have done your 
duty. Desiring to connect some little service to you 
with this occasion, I considered how 1 could best effect 
that object, and I also advised with my sister Mrs. ” — 

4< Chick,” interposed the gentleman of that name. 

“ Oh, hush if you please ! ” said Miss Tox. 

“ I was about to say to you, Richards,” resumed Mr. 
Dombey, with an appalling glance at Mr. John, “ that 
I was further assisted in my decision, by the recollec- 
tion of a conversation I held with your husband in 
this room, on the occasion of your being hired, when 
he disclosed to me the melancholy fact that your family, 
himself at the head, were sunk and steeped in igno- 
rance.” 

Richards quailed under the magnificence of the re* 
proof. 

“ I am far from being friendly,” pursued Mr. Dom 
bey, “to what is called by persons of levelling senth 
ments, general education. But it is necessary that the 
inferior classes should continue to be taught to know 
their position, and to conduct themselves properly. So 
far I approve of schools. Having the power of nomi- 
nating a child on the foundation of an ancient establish- 
ment, called (from a worshipful company) the Charitable 
Grinders ; where not only is a wholesome education 
bestowed upon the scholars, but where a dress and badge 
is likewise provided for them; I have (first communieat- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


95 


hg, through Mrs. Chick, with your family) nominated 
your eldest son to an existing vacancy ; and he has this 
day, I am informed, assumed the habit. The number 
of her son, I believe,” said Mr. Dombey, turning to his 
sister and speaking of the child as if he were a hackney- 
coach, “is one hundred and forty-seven. Louisa, you 
can tell her.” 

“ One hundred and forty-seven,” said Mrs. Chick. 
“ The dress, Richards, is a nice, warm, blue baize tailed 
coat and cap, turned up with orange-colored binding ; 
red worsted stockings; and very strong leather small- 
clothes. One might wear the articles one’s self,” said 
Mrs. Chick, with enthusiasm, “ and be grateful.” 

“ There, Richards ! ” said Miss Tox. “ Now, indeed, 
you may be proud. The Charitable Grinders ! ” 

“ I am sure I am very much obliged, sir,” returned 
Richards faintly, “ and take it very kind that you should 
remember my little ones.” At the same time a vision 
of Biler as a Charitable Grinder, with his very small 
legs encased in the serviceable clothing described by 
Mrs. Chick, swam before Richards’s eyes, and made 
them water. 

“ I am very glad to see you have so much feeling, 
Richards,” said Miss Tox. 

“ It makes one almost hope, it really does,” said Mrs. 
Chick, who prided herself on taking trustful views of 
human nature, “ that there may yet be some faint spark 
of gratitude and right feeling in the world.” 

Richards deferred to these compliments by courtesy- 
ing and murmuring her thanks ; but finding it quite 
impossible to recover her spirits from the disorder into 
which they had been thrown by the image pf her son 
in his precocious nether garments, she gradually ap- 


96 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


proached the door and was heartily relieved to escape 
by it. 

Such temporary indications of a partial thaw that had 
appeared with her, vanished with her; and the frost 
set in again, as cold and hard as ever. Mr. Chick 
was twice heard to hum a tune at the bottom of the 
table, but on both occasions it was a fragment of the 
Dead March in Saul. The party seemed to get colder 
and colder, and to be gradually resolving itself into a 
congealed and solid state, like the collation round which 
it was assembled. At length Mrs. Chick looked at 
Miss Tox, and Miss Tox returned the look, and they 
both rose and said it was really time to go. Mr. 
Dombey receiving this announcement with perfect equa- 
nimity, they took leave of that gentleman, and pres- 
ently departed under the protection of Mr. Chick ; who, 
when they had turned their backs upon the house and 
left its master in his usual solitary state, put his hands 
in his pockets, threw himself back in the carriage, and 
whistled “ With a hey ho chevy ! ” all through ; con- 
veying into his face as he did so, an expression of such 
gloomy and terrible defiance, that Mrs. Chick dared not 
protest, or in any way molest him. 

Richards,* though she had little Paul on her lap, could 
not forget her own first-born. She felt it was ungrate- 
ful ; but the influence of the day fell even on the 
Charitable Grinders, and she could hardly help regard- 
ing his pewter badge, number one hundred and forty- 
seven, as, somehow, a part of its formality and sternness. 
She spoke, too, in the nursery, of his “ blessed legs,” 
and was again troubled by his spectre in uniform. 

“ I don’t know what I wouldn’t give,” said Polly, “ to 
see the poor little dear before he gets used to ’em.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


97 


“ Why, then, I tell you what, Mrs. Richards,” retorted 
Nipper, who had been admitted to her confidence, “ see 
him and make your mind easy.” 

“ Mr. Dombey wouldn’t like it,” said Polly. 

“ Oh wouldn’t ha, Mrs. Richards!” retorted Nip- 
per, “he’d like it very much, I think, when he was 
asked.” 

“ You wouldn’t ask him, I suppose, at all ? ” said 
PoUy. 

“ No, Mrs. Richards, quite contrairy,” returned Susan, 
“ and them two inspectors Tox and Chick, not intend- 
ing to be on duty to-morrow, as I heard ’em say, me 
and Miss Floy will go along with you to-morrow morn- 
ing, and welcome, Mrs. Richards, if you like, for we 
may as well walk there as up and down a street, and 
better too.” 

Polly rejected the idea pretty stoutly at first ; but 
by little and little she began to entertain it, as she enter- 
tained more and more distinctly the forbidden pictures 
of her children, and her own home. At length, argu- 
ing that there could be no great harm in calling for 
a moment at the door, she yielded to the Nipper prop- 
osition. 

The matter being settled thus, little Paul began to 
cry most piteously, as if he had a foreboding that no 
good would come of it. 

“What’s the matter with the child?” asked Susan. 

“He’s cold, I think,” said Polly, walking with him 
to and fro, and hushing him. 

It was a bleak autumnal afternoon indeed ; and as 
she walked, and hushed, and, glancing through the 
dreary windows, pressed the little fellow closer to her 
breast, the withered leaves came showering down. 

VOL. i. 7 


98 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Paul’s second deprivation. 

Polly was beset by so many misgivings in the morn- 
ing, that but for the incessant promptings of her black- 
eyed companion, she would have abandoned all thoughts 
of the expedition, and formally petitioned for leave to 
see number one hundred and forty-seven under the awful 
shadow of Mr. Dombey’s roof. But Susan who was 
personally disposed in favor of the excursion, and who 
(like Tony Lumpkin), if she could bear the disappoint- 
ments of other people with tolerable fortitude, could not 
abide to disappoint herself, threw so many ingenious 
doubts in the way of this second thought, and stimulated 
the original intention with so many ingenious arguments, 
that almost as soon as Mr. Dombey’s stately back was 
turned, and that gentleman was pursuing his daily road 
towards the city, his unconscious son was on his way to 
Staggs’s Gardens. 

This euphonious locality was situated in a suburb, 
known by the inhabitants of Staggs’s Gardens by the 
name of Camberling Town ; a designation which the 
Strangers’ Map of London, as printed (with a view to 
pleasant and commodious reference) on pocket-handker- 
chiefs, condenses, with some show of reason, into Camden 
Town. Hither the two nurses bent their steps, accom- 
panied by their charges ; Richards carrying PauL of 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


99 


course, and Susan leading little Florence by the hand, 
and giving her such jerks and pokes from time to time, 
as she considered it wholesome to administer. 

The first shock of a great earthquake had, just at 
that period, rent the whole neighborhood to its centre. 
Traces of its course were visible on every side. Houses 
were knocked down ; streets broken through and stop- 
ped ; deep pits and trenches dug in the ground ; enor- 
mous heaps of earth and clay thrown up ; buildings 
that were undermined and shaking, propped by great 
beams of wood. Here, a chaos of carts, overthrown 
and jumbled together, lay topsy-turvy at the bottom of 
a steep unnatural hill ; there, confused treasures of iron 
soaked and rusted in something that had accidentally 
become a pond. Everywhere were bridges that led 
nowhere ; thoroughfares that were wholly impassable ; 
Babel towers of chimneys, wanting half their height ; 
temporary wooden houses and enclosures, in the most 
unlikely situations ; carcases of ragged tenements, and 
fragments of unfinished walls and arches, and piles of 
scaffolding, and wildernesses of bricks, and giant forms 
of cranes, and tripods straddling above nothing. There 
were a hundred thousand shapes and substances of in- 
completeness, wildly mingled out of their places, upside 
down, burrowing in the earth, aspiring in the air, mould- 
ering in the water, and unintelligible as any dream. Hot 
springs and fiery eruptions, the usual attendants upon 
earthquakes, lent their contributions of confusion to the 
scene. Boiling water hissed and heaved within dilapi- 
dated walls ; whence, also, the glare and roar of flames 
came issuing forth ; and mounds of ashes blocked up 
rights of way, and wholly changed the law and custom 
of the neighborhood. 


100 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


In short, the yet unfinished and unopened railroad was 
in progress ; and, from the very core of all this dire dis- 
order, trailed smoothly away, upon its mighty course of 
civilization and improvement. 

But as yet, the neighborhood was shy to own the Rail- 
road. One or two bold speculators had projected streets ; 
and one had built a little, but had stopped among the 
mud and ashes to consider further of it. A bran-new 
tavern, redolent of fresh mortar and size, and fronting 
nothing at all, had taken for its sign The Railway Arms ; 
but that might be rash enterprise — and then it hoped to 
sell drink to the workmen. So, the Excavators’ House 
of Call had sprung up from a beer-shop ; and the old- 
established Ham and Beef Shop had become the Rail- 
way Eating House, with a roast leg of pork daily, 
through interested motives of a similar immediate and 
popular description. Lodging-house keepers were favor- 
able in like manner; and for the like reasons were not 
to be trusted. The general belief was very slow. There 
were frowzy fields, and cow-houses, and dunghills, and 
dust-heaps, and ditches, and gardens, and summer-houses, 
and carpet-beating grounds, at the very door of the rail- 
way. Little tumuli of oyster shells in the oyster season, 
and of lobster shells in the lobster season, and of broken 
crockery and faded cabbage leaves in all seasons, en- 
croached upon its high places. Posts, and rails, and old 
cautions to trespassers, and backs of mean houses, and 
patches of wretched vegetation, stared it out of counte- 
nance. Nothing was the better for it, or thought of being 
so. If the miserable waste ground lying near it could 
have laughed, it would have laughed it to scorn, like 
many of the miserable neighbors. 

Staggs’s Gardens was uncommonly incredulous. It 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


101 


was a little row of houses, with little squalid patches of 
ground before them, fenced off with old doors, barrel 
staves, scraps of tarpaulin, and dead bushes ; with bot- 
tomless tin kettles and exhausted iron fenders, thrust 
into the gaps. Here, the Staggs’s Gardeners trained 
scarlet beans, kept fowls and rabbits, erected rotten sum- 
mer-houses (one was an old boat), dried clothes, and 
smoked pipes. Some were of opinion that Staggs’s 
Gardens derived its name from a deceased capitalist, 
one Mr. Staggs, who had built it for his delectation. 
Others, who had a natural taste for the country, held 
that it dated from those rural times when the antlered 
herd, under the familiar denomination of Staggses, had 
resorted to its shady precincts. Be this as it may, 
Staggs’s Gardens was regarded by its population as a 
sacred grove not to be withered by railroads ; and so 
confident were they generally of its long outliving any 
such ridiculous inventions, that the master chimney- 
sweeper at the corner, who was understood to take the 
lead in the local politics of the Gardens, had publicly 
declared that on the occasion of the railroad opening, if 
ever it did open, two of his boys should ascend the flues 
of his dwelling, with instructions to hail the failure with 
derisive jeers from the chimney-pots. 

Tc^this unhallowed spot, the very name of which 
had hitherto been carefully concealed from Mr. Dom- 
bey by his sister, was little Paul now borne by Fate 
and Richards. 

u That’s my house, Susan,” said Polly, pointing it out. 

“ Is it, indeed, Mrs. Richards,” said Susan, condescend- 
ingly. 

“ And there’s my sister Jemima at the door, I do de- 
clare ; ” cried Polly, “ with my own sweet precious baby 
In her arms ! ” 


102 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


The sight added such an extensive pair of wings to 
Polly’s impatience, that she set off down the Gardens at 
a run, and bouncing on Jemima, changed babies with her 
in a twinkling ; to the utter astonishment of that young 
damsel, on whom the heir of the Dombeys seemed to 
have fallen from the clouds. 

“ Why, Polly ! ” cried Jemima. “ You ! what a turn 
you have given me ! who’d have thought it ! come along 
in Polly ! How well you do look to be sure ! The 
children will go half wild to see you Polly, that they 
will.” 

That they did, if one might judge from the noise they 
made, and the way in which they dashed at Polly and 
dragged her to a low chair in the chimney corner, where 
her own honest apple face became immediately the centre 
of a bunch of smaller pippins, all laying their rosy cheeks 
close to it, and all evidently the growth of the same tree. 
As to Polly, she was full as noisy and vehement as the 
children ; and it was not until she was quite out of 
breath, and her hair was hanging all about her flushed 
face, and her new christening attire was very much di- 
shevelled, that any pause took place in the confusion. 
Even then, the smallest Toodle but one remained in her 
lap, holding on tight w T ith both arms round her neck; 
while the smallest Toodle but two mounted on the back 
of the chair, and made desperate efforts, with one leg in 
the air, to kiss her round the corner. 

“ Look ! there’s a pretty little lady come to see you, 
said Polly ; “ and see how quiet she is ! what a beautiful 
little lady, a’n’t she ? ” 

This reference to Florence, who had been standing by 
the door not unobservant of what passed, directed the 
attention of the younger branches towards her; and had 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


103 


likewise the happy effect of leading to the formal recogni- 
tion of Miss Nipper, who was not quite free from a mis- 
giving that she had been already slighted. 

“ Oh do come in and sit down a minute, Susan, 
please,” said Polly. ‘‘ This is my sister Jemima, this 
is. Jemima, I don’t know what I should ever do with 
myself, if it wasn’t for Susan Nipper ; I shouldn’t be 
here now but for her.” 

“ Oh do sit down Miss Nipper, if you please,” quoth 
Jemima. 

Susan took the extreme corner of a chair, with a 
stately and ceremonious aspect. 

“ I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life ; 
now really, I never was, Miss Nipper,” said Jemima. 

Susan relaxing, took a little more of the chair, and 
smiled graciously. 

“ Do untie your bonnet-strings and make yourself at 
home, Miss Nipper, please,” entreated Jemima. u I am 
afraid it’s a poorer place than you’re used to ; but you’ll 
make allowances, I’m sure.” 

The black-eyed was so softened by this deferential be- 
havior, that she caught up little Miss Toodle who was 
running past, and took her to Banbury Cross immedi- 
ately. 

“ But where’s my pretty boy ? ” said Polly. “ My 
poor fellow ? I came all this way to see him in his 
new clothes.” 

“ Ah what a pity ! ” cried Jemima. “ He’ll break his 
heart, when he hears his mother has been here. He’s at 
school, Polly.” 

“ Gone already ! ” 

“ Yes. He went for the first time yesterday, for fear 
he should lose any learning. But it’s half-holiday, Polly : 


104 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


if you could only stop till he comes home — you and 
Miss Nipper, leastways,” said Jemima, mindful in good 
time of the dignity of the black-eyed. 

“ And how does he look, Jemima, bless him ! ” faltered 
Polly. 

“ Well, really he don’t look so bad as you’d suppose,” 
returned Jemima. 

“ Ah ! ” said Polly, with emotion, “ I knew his legs 
must be too short.” 

“ His legs is short,” returned Jemima ; “ especially be- 
hind ; but they’ll get longer, Polly, every day.” 

It was a slow, prospective kind of consolation ; but the 
cheerfulness and good nature with which it was admin- 
istered, gave it a value it did not intrinsically possess. 
After a moment’s silence, Polly asked, in a more spright- 
ly manner : — 

“And where’s father, Jemima dear?” — for by that 
patriarchal appellation, Mr. Toodle was generally known 
in the family. 

“ There again ! ” said Jemima. “ What a pity ! Fa- 
ther took his dinner with him this morning, and isn’t 
coming home till night. But he’s always talking of you, 
Polly, and telling the children about you ; and is the 
peaceablest, patientest, best temperedest soul in the 
world, as he always was and will be ! ” 

“Thankee, Jemima,” cried the simple Polly; delighted 
by the speech, and disappointed by the absence. 

“ Oh you needn’t thank me, Polly,” said her sister, 
giving her a sound kiss upon the cheek, and then dancing 
little Paul cheerfully. “ I say the same of you some- 
times, and think it too.” 

In spite of the double disappointment, it was impos- 
sible to regard in the light of a failure a visit which 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


105 


was greeted with such a reception ; so the sisters talked 
hopefully about family matters, and about Biler, and 
about all his brothers and sisters : while the black- 
eyed, having performed several journeys to Banbury 
Cross and back, took sharp note of the furniture, the 
Dutch clock, the cupboard, the castle on the mantel" 
piece with red and green windows in it, susceptible of 
illumination by a candle-end within ; and the pair of 
small black velvet kittens, each with a lady’s reticule in 
its mouth; regarded by the Staggs’s Gardeners as prod- 
igies of imitative art. The conversation soon becoming 
general lest the black-eyed should go off at score and 
turn sarcastic, that young lady related to Jemima a sum- 
mary of everything she knew concerning Mr. Dombey, 
his prospects, family, pursuits, and character. Also an 
exact inventory of her personal wardrobe, and some 
account of her principal relations and friends. Having 
relieved her mind of these disclosures, she partook of 
shrimps and porter, and evinced a disposition to swear 
eternal friendship. 

Little Florence herself was not behindhand in im- 
proving the occasion ; for, being conducted forth by the 
young Toodles to inspect some toadstools and other curi- 
osities of the Gardens, she entered with them, heart and 
soul, on the formation of a temporary breakwater across 
a small green pool that had collected in a corner. She 
was still busily engaged in that labor, when sought and 
found by Susan ; who, such was her sense of duty, even 
under the humanizing influence of shrimps, delivered a 
moral address to her (punctuated with thumps) on her 
degenerate nature, while washing her face and hands ; 
and predicted that she would bring the gray hairs of her 
family in general, with sorrow to the grave. After some 


106 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


delay, occasioned by a pretty long confidential interview 
above-stairs on pecuniary subjects, between Polly and 
Jemima, an interchange of babies was again effected — 
for Polly had all this time retained her own child, and 
Jemima little Paul — and the visitors took leave. 

But first the young Toodles, victims of a pious fraud, 
were deluded into repairing in a body to a chandler’s 
shop in the neighborhood, for the ostensible purpose of 
spending a penny ; and when the coast was quite clear, 
Polly fled : Jemima calling after her that if they could 
only go round towards the City Road on their way 
back, they would be sure to meet little Biler coming 
from school. 

“ Do you think that we might make time to go a little 
round in that direction, Susan ? ” inquired Polly, when 
they halted to take breath. 

“ Why not, Mrs. Richards ? ” returned Susan. 

“ It’s getting on towards our dinner-time you know,” 
said Polly. 

But lunch had rendered her companion more than in- 
different to this grave consideration, so she allowed no 
weight to it, and they resolved to go “ a little round.” 

Now, it happened that poor Biler’s life had been, since 
yesterday morning, rendered weary by the costume of 
the Charitable Grinders. The youth of the streets could 
not endure it. No young vagabond could be brought to 
bear its contemplation for a moment, without throwing 
himself upon the unoffending wearer, and doing him a 
mischief. His social existence had been more like that 
of an early Christian, than an innocent child of the 
nineteenth century. He had been stoned in the streets. 
He had been overthrown into gutters ; bespattered with 
mud ; violently flattened against posts. Entire strangers 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


107 


to his person had lifted his yellow cap off his head, and 
cast it to the winds. His legs had not only undergone 
verbal criticisms and revilings, but had been handled and 
pinched. That very morning, he had received a perfectly 
unsolicited black eye on his way to the Grinders’ estab- 
lishment, and had been punished for it by the master : a 
superannuated old Grinder of savage disposition, who 
had been appointed school-master because he didn’t 
know anything, and wasn’t fit for anything, and for 
whose cruel cane all chubby little boys had a perfect 
fascination. 

Thus it fell out that Biler, on his way home, sought 
unfrequented paths; and slunk along by narrow passages 
and back streets, to avoid his tormentors. Being com- 
pelled to emerge into the main road, his ill fortune 
brought him at last where a small party of boys, 
headed by a ferocious young butcher, were lying in 
wait for any means of pleasurable excitement that might 
happen. These, finding a Charitable Grinder in the 
midst of them — unaccountably delivered over, as it 
were, into their hands — set up a general yell and 
rushed upon him. 

But it so fell out likewise, that, at the same time, 
Polly, looking hopelessly along the road before her, after 
a good hour’s walk, had said it was no use going any 
farther, when suddenly she saw this sight. She no 
sooner saw it than, uttering a hasty exclamation, and 
giving Master Dombey to the black-eyed, she started 
to the rescue of her unhappy little son. 

Surprises, like misfortunes, rarely come alone. The 
astonished Susan Nippei and her two young charges 
were rescued by the by-standers from under the very 
wheels of a passing carriage before they knew what had 


108 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


happened ; and at that moment (it was market-day) a 
thundering alarm of 44 Mad Bull ! ” was raised. 

With a wild confusion before her, of people running 
up and down, and shouting, and wheels running over 
them, and boys fighting, and mad bulls coming up, and 
the nurse in the midst of all these dangers being torn to 
pieces, Florence screamed and ran. She ran till she 
was exhausted, urging Susan to do the same ; and then, 
stopping and wringing her hands as she remembered 
they had left the other nurse behind, found, with a sen- 
sation of terror not to be described, that she was quite 
alone. 

44 Susan ! Susan ! ” cried Florence, clapping her hands 
in the very ecstasy of her alarm. 44 Oh, where are they ! 
where are they ! ” 

44 Where are they ? ” said an old woman, coming hob- 
bling across as fast as she could from the opposite side of 
the way. 44 Why did you run away from ’em ? ” 

“ I was frightened,” answered Florence. 44 1 didn’t 
know what I did. I thought they were with me. Where 
are they ? ” 

The old woman took her by the wrist, and said, 44 I’ll 
show you.” 

She was a very ugly old woman, with red rims round 
her eyes, and a mouth that mumbled and chattered of 
itself when she was not speaking. She was miserably 
dressed, and carried some skins over her arm. She 
seemed to have followed Florence some little way at 
all events, for she had lost her breath ; and this made 
her uglier still, as she stood trying to regain it : working 
her shrivelled yellow face and throat into all sorts ol 
contortions. 

Florence was afraid of her, and looked, hesitating, up 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


109 


the street, of which she had almost reached the bottorrw 
It was a solitary place — more a back road than a street 
— and there was no one in it but herself and the old 
woman. 

“ You needn’t be frightened now,” said the old woman, 
still holding her tight. “ Come along with me.” 

“I — I don’t know you. What’s your name ? ” asked 
Florence. 

“ Mrs. Brown,” said the old woman. “ Good Mrs 
Brown.” 

“ Are they near here ? ” asked Florence, beginning to 
be led away. 

“ Susan a’n’t far off,” said Good Mrs. Brown ; “ and 
the others are close to her.” 

u Is anybody hurt ? ” cried Florence. 

“ Not a bit of it,” said Good Mrs. Brown. 

The child shed tears of delight on hearing this, and 
accompanied the old woman willingly ; though she could 
not help glancing at her face as they went along — par- 
ticularly at that industrious mouth — and wondering 
whether Bad Mrs. Brown, if there were such a person, 
was at all like her. 

They had not gone far, but had gone by some very 
uncomfortable places, such as brick-fields and tile-yards, 
when the old woman turned down a dirty lane, where the 
mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle of the road. 
She stopped before a shabby little house, as closely 
shut up as a house that was full of cracks and crevices 
could be. Opening the door with a key she took out 
of her bonnet, she pushed the child before her into 
a back-room, where there was a great heap of rags of 
different colors lying on the floor: a heap of bon^s, 
and a heap of sifted dust or cinders; but there was no 


no 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


furniture at all, and the walls and ceiling were quite 
black. 

The child became so terrified that she was stricken 
speechless, and looked as though about to swoon. 

“ Now don’t be a young mule,” said Good Mrs. 
Brown, reviving her with a shake. “I’m not a-going 
to hurt you. Sit upon the rags.” 

Florence obeyed her, holding out her folded hands, in 
mute supplication. 

“ I’m not a-going to keep you, even, above an hour,” 
Baid Mrs. Brown. “ D’ye understand what I say ? ” 

The child answered with great difficulty, “ Yes.” 

“ Then,” said Good Mrs. Brown, taking her own seat 
on the bones, “ don’t vex me. If you don’t, I tell you 
I won’t hurt you. But if you do, I’ll kill you. I could 
have you killed at any time — even if you was in your 
own bed at home. Now let’s know who you are, and 
what you are, and all about it.” 

The old woman’s threats and promises ; the dread of 
giving her offence ; and the habit, unusual to a child, 
but almost natural to Florence now, of being quiet, and 
repressing what she felt, and feared, and hoped ; enabled 
her to do this bidding, and to tell her little history, or 
what she knew of it. Mrs. Brown listened attentively, 
until she had finished. 

“So your name’s Dombey, eh?” said Mrs. Brown. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“ I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey,” said Good 
Mrs. Brown, “ and that little bonnet, and a petticoat or 
two, and anything else you can spare. Come ! Take 
’em off.” 

Florence obeyed as fast as her trembling hands would 
allow ; keeping, all the while, a frightened eye on Mrs. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Ill 


Brown. When she had divested herself of all the ar- 
ticles of apparel mentioned by that lady, Mrs. B. ex- 
amined them at leisure, and seemed tolerably well satis- 
fied with their quality and value. 

“ Humph ! ” she said, running her eyes over the child’s 
slight figure, “ I don’t see anything else — except the 
shoes. I must have the shoes, Miss Dombey.” 

Poor little Florence took them off with equal alacrity, 
only too glad to have any more means of conciliation 
about her. The old woman then produced some wretched 
substitutes from the bottom of the heap of rags, which 
she turned up for that purpose ; together with a girl’s 
cloak, quite worn out and very old ; and the crushed re- 
mains of a bonnet that had probably been picked up 
from some ditch or dunghill. In this dainty raiment, 
she instructed Florence to dress herself ; and as such 
preparation seemed a prelude to her release, the child 
complied with increased readiness, if possible. 

In hurriedly putting on the bonnet, if that may be 
called a bonnet which was more like a pad to carry loads 
on, she caught it in her hair which grew luxuriantly, and 
could not immediately disentangle it. Good Mrs. Brown 
whipped out a large pair of scissors, and fell into an un- 
accountable state of excitement. 

“ Why couldn’t you let me be,” said Mrs. Brown, 
“ when I was contented. You little fool ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon. I don’t know what I have done,” 
panted Florence. “ I couldn’t help it.” 

“ Couldn’t help it ! ” cried Mrs. Brown. “ How do 
you expect I can help it ? Why, Lord ! ” said the old 
woman, ruffling her curls with a furious pleasure, “ any- 
body but me would have had ’em off first of all.” 

Florence was so relieved to find that it was only her 


112 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


hair and not her head which Mrs. Brown coveted, that 
she offered no resistance or entreaty, and merely raised 
her mild eyes towards the face of that good soul. 

“ If I hadn’t once had a gal of my own — beyond seas 
now — that was proud of her hair,” said Mrs. Brown, 
“ I’d have had every lock of it. She’s far away, she’s 
far away ! Oho ! Oho ! ” 

Mrs. Brown’s was not a melodious cry, but, accom- 
panied with a wild tossing up of her lean arms, it was 
full of passionate grief, and thrilled to the heart of Flor- 
ence, whom it frightened more than ever. It had its 
part, perhaps, in saving her curls ; for Mrs. Brown, after 
hovering about her with the scissors for some moments, 
(ike a new kind of butterfly, bade her hide them under 
the bonnet and let no trace of them escape to tempt her. 
Having accomplished this victory over herself, Mrs. 
Brown resumed her seat on the bones, and smoked a 
very short black pipe, mowing and mumbling all the 
time, as if she were eating the stem. 

When the pipe was smoked out, she gave the child a 
rabbit-skin to carry, that she might appear more like her 
ordinary companion, and told her that she was now going 
to lead her to a public street whence she could inquire 
her way to her friends. But she cautioned her, with 
threats of summary and deadly vengeance in case of dis- 
obedience, not to talk to strangers, nor to repair to her 
own home (which may have been too near for Mrs. 
Brown’s convenience), but to her father’s office in the 
city ; also to wait at the street corner where she would 
be left, until the clock struck three. These directions 
Mrs. Brown enforced with assurances that there would 
be potent eyes and ears in her employment cognizant of 
all she did; and these directions Florence promised faith- 
fully and earnestly to observe. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


113 


At length Mrs. Brown, issuing forth, conducted her 
changed and ragged little friend through a labyrinth of 
narrow streets and lanes and alleys, which emerged after 
a long time, upon a stable-yard, with a gate-way at the 
end, whence the roar of a great thoroughfare made itself 
audible. Pointing out this gate-way, and informing Flor 
ence that when the clock struck three she was to go to 
the left, Mrs. Brown, after making a parting grasp at her 
hair which seemed involuntary and quite beyond her 
own control, told her she knew what to do, and bade 
her go and do it : remembering that she was watched. 

With a lighter heart, but still sore afraid, Florence 
felt herself released, and tripped off to the corner. When 
she reached it, she looked back and saw the head of 
Good Mrs. Brown peeping out of the low wooden pas- 
sage, where she had issued her parting injunctions ; like- 
wise the fist of Good Mrs. Brown shaking towards her. 
But though she often looked back afterwards — every 
minute, at least, in her nervous recollection of the old 
woman — she could not see her again. 

Florence remained there, looking at the bustle in the 
street, and more and more bewildered by it; and in the 
mean while the clocks appeared to have made up their 
minds never to strike three any more. At last the 
steeples rang out three o’clock ; there was one close by, 
so she’ couldn’t be mistaken ; and — after often looking 
over her shoulder, and often going a little way, and as 
often coming back again, lest the all-powerful spies of 
Mrs. Brown should take offence — she hurried off, as 
last as she could in her slipshod shoes, holding the rabbit 
akin tight in her hand. 

All she knew of her father’s offices was that they be- 
longed to Dombey and Son, and that that was a great 
vol. i. 8 


114 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


power belonging to the city. So she could only ask the 
way to Dorabey and Son’s in the city ; and as she gen- 
erally made inquiry of children — being afraid to ask 
grown people — she got very little satisfaction indeed. 
But by dint of asking her way to the city after a while, 
and dropping the rest of her inquiry for the present, she 
really did advance, by slow degrees, towards the heart 
of that great region which is governed by the terrible 
Lord Mayor. 

Tired of walking, repulsed and pushed about, stunned 
by the noise and confusion, anxious for her brother and 
the nurses, terrified by what she had undergone, and the 
prospect of encountering her angry father in such an al- 
tered state; perplexed and frightened alike by what had 
passed, and what was passing, and what was yet before 
her ; Florence went upon her weary way with tearful 
eyes, and once or twice could not help stopping to ease 
her bursting heart by crying bitterly. But few people 
noticed her at those times, in the garb she wore : or if 
they did, believed that she was tutored to excite com- 
passion, and passed on. Florence, too, called to her aid 
all the firmness and self-reliance of a character that her 
sad experience had prematurely formed and tried ; and 
keeping the end she had in view, steadily before her, 
steadily pursued it. 

It -was full two hours later in the afternoon than when 
she had started on this strange adventure, when, escap- 
ing from the clash and clangor of a narrow street full of 
carts and wagons, she peeped into a kind of wharf or 
landing-place, upon the riverside, where there were a 
great many packages, casks, and boxes, strewn about ; a 
large pair of wooden scales ; and a little wooden house 
on wheels, outside of which, looking at the neighboring 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


115 


masts and boats, a stout man stood whistling, with his 
pen behind his ear, and his hands in his pockets, as if his 
day’s work were nearly done. 

“ Now then ! ” said this man, happening to turn round. 
w We haven’t got anything for you, little girl. Be off!” 

“ If you please, is this the city ? ” asked the trembling 
daughter of the Dombeys. 

“ Ah ! it’s the city. You know that well enough, I 
dare say. Be off! We haven’t got anything for you.” 

“ I don’t want anything, thank you,” was the timid 
answer. “ Except to know the way to Dombey and 
Son’s.” 

The man who had been strolling carelessly towards 
her, seemed surprised by this reply, and looking atten- 
tively in her face, rejoined : 

“ Why, what can you want with Dombey and Son’s ? ” 

“ To know the way there, if you please.” 

The man looked at her yet more curiously, and rubbed 
the back of his head so hard in his wonderment that he 
knocked his own hat off. 

“ Joe ! ” he called to another man — a laborer — as 
he picked it up and put it on again. 

“Joe it is ! ” said Joe. 

“ Where’s that young spark of Dombey’s who’s been 
watching the shipment of them goods ? ” 

“ Just gone, by the t’other gate,” said Joe. 

“ Call him back a minute.” 

Joe ran up an archway, bawling as he went, and very 
soon returned with a blithe-looking boy. 

“ You’re Dombey’s jockey, a’n’t you ? ” said the first 
man. 

“ I’m in Dombey’s House, Mr. Clark,” returned the 

boy. 


116 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Look’ye here, then,” said Mr. Clark. 

Obedient to the indication of Mr. Clark’s hand, the 
boy approached towards Florence, wondering, as well he 
might, what he had to do with her. But she, who had 
heard what passed,- and who, besides the relief of so sud- 
denly considering herself safe and at her journey’s end, 
felt reassured beyond all measure by his lively youthful 
face and manner, ran eagerly up to him, leaving one of 
the slipshod shoes upon the ground, and caught his 
hand in both of hers. 

“ I am lost, if you please ! ” said Florence. 

u Lost ! ” cried the boy. 

u Yes, I was lost this morning, a long way from here 
— and I have had my clothes taken away, since — and I 
am not dressed in my own now — and my name is Flor- 
ence Dombey, my little brother’s only sister — and, oh 
dear, dear, take care of me, if you please ! ” sobbed 
Florence, giving full vent to the childish feelings she had 
so long suppressed, and bursting into tears. At the 
same time her miserable bonnet falling off, her hair came 
tumbling down about her face : moving to speechless ad- 
miration and commiseration, young Walter, nephew of 
Solomon Gills, Ships’ Instrument-maker in general. 

Mr. Clark stood rapt in amazement : observing under 
his breath, /never saw such a start on this wharf before. 
Walter picked up the shoe, and put it on the little foot 
as the Prince in the story might have fitted Cinderella’s 
slipper on. He hung the rabbit-skin over his left arm ; 
gave the right to Florence ; and felt not to say like 
Richard Whittington — that is a tame comparison — but 
like Saint George of England, with the dragon lying 
dead before him. 

“ Don’t cry, Miss Dombey,” said Walter, in a trans- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


117 


port of enthusiasm. “ What a wonderful thing for me 
that I am here. You are as safe now as if you were 
guarded by a whole boat’s crew of picked men from a 
man-of-war. Oh don’t cry.” 

“ I won’t cry any more,” said Florence. “ I am only 
crying for joy.” 

“ Crying for joy ! ” thought Walter, “ and I’m the 
cause of it. Come along, Miss Dombey. There’s the 
other shoe off now ! Take mine, Miss Dombey.” 

“ No, no, no,” said Florence, checking him in the act 
of impetuously pulling off his own. “ These do better 
These do very well.” 

“ Why, to be sure,” said Walter, glancing at her foot 
“ mine are a mile too large. What am I thinking about ! 
You never could walk in mine ! Come along, Miss 
Dombey. Let me see the villain who will dare molest 
you now.” 

So Walter, looking immensely fierce, led off Florence, 
looking very happy ; and they went arm in arm along 
the streets, perfectly indifferent to any astonishment that 
their appearance might or did excite by the way. 

It was growing dark and foggy, and beginning to rain 
too ; but they cared nothing for this : being both wholly 
absorbed in the late adventures of Florence, which she 
related with the innocent good faith and confidence of 
her years, while Walter listened as if, far from the mud 
and grease of Thames-street, they were rambling alone 
among the broad leaves and tall trees of some desert 
island in the tropics — as he very likely fancied, for the 
time, they were. 

“ Have we far to go ? ” asked Florence at last, lifting 
her eyes to her companion’s face. 

“ Ah ! By the by,” said Walter, stopping, “ let me see 


1 18 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


wheie are we? Oh ! I know. But the offices are shut 
up now, Miss Dombey. There’s nobody there. Mr. 
Dombey has gone home long ago. I suppose we must 
go home too ? or, stay. Suppose I take you to my 
uncle’s, where I live — it’s very near here — and go to 
your house in a coach to tell them you are safe, and 
bring you back some clothes. Won’t that be best? ” 

“ I think so,” answered Florence. “ Don’t you ? What 
do you think ? ” 

As they stood deliberating in the street, a man passed 
them, who glanced quickly at Walter as he went by, as 
if he recognized him ; but seeming to correct that first 
impression, he passed on without stopping. 

“ Why, I think it’s Mr. Carker,” said Walter. “ Car- 
ker in our House. Not Carker, our manager, Miss 
Dombey — the other Carker ; the junior — Halloa ! 
Mr. Carker ! ” 

“ Is that Walter Gay?” said the other, stopping and 
returning. “ I couldn’t believe it, with such a strange 
companion.” 

As he stood near a lamp, listening with surprise to 
Walter’s hurried explanation, he presented a remarkable 
contrast to the two youthful figures arm-in-arm before 
him. He was not old, but his hair was white ; his body 
was bent, or bowed as if by the weight of some great 
trouble ; and there were deep lines in his worn and mel- 
ancholy face. The fire of his eyes, the expression of 
lis features, the very voice in which he spoke, were all 
subdued and quenched, as if the spirit within him lay in 
ashes. He was respectably, though very plainly, dressed 
in black ; but his clothes, moulded to the general char- 
acter of his figure, seemed to shrink and abase them- 
selves upon him, and to join in the sorrowful solicitation 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


119 


which the whole man from head to foot expressed, to be 
left unnoticed, and alone in his humility. 

And yet his interest in youth and hopefulness was not 
extinguished with the other embers of his soul, for he 
watched the boy's earnest countenance as he spoke with 
unusual sympathy, though with an inexplicable show of 
trouble and compassion, which escaped into his looks, 
however hard he strove to hold it prisoner. When Wal- 
ter, in conclusion, put to him the question he had put to 
Florence, he still stood glancing at him with the same 
expression, as if* he read some fate upon his face, mourn- 
fully at variance with its present brightness. 

“What do you advise, Mr. Garber?" said Walter, 
smiling. “ You always give me good advice, you know, 
when you do speak to me. That’s not often, though." 

“I think your own idea is the best,” he answered: 
looking from Florence to Walter, and back again. 

“ Mr. Carker,” said Walter, brightening with a gen- 
erous thought, “ Come ! Here’s a chance for you. Go 
you to Mr. Dombey’s, and be the messenger of good 
news. It may do you some good, sir. I’ll remain at 
home. You shall go." 

“ I ! ” returned the other. 

“ Yes. Why not, Mr. Carker ? " said the boy. 

He merely shook him by the hand in answer ; he 
seemed in a manner ashamed and afraid even to do that ; 
and bidding him good-night, and advising him to make 
haste, turned away. 

“ Come, Miss Dombey,” said Walter, looking after him 
as they turned away also, “ we’ll go to my uncle’s as 
quick as we can. Did you ever hear Mr. Dombey speak 
af Mr. Carker, the junior, Miss Florence?" 

“No," returned the child, mildly, “I don’t often hear 
papa speak." 


120 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Ah ! true ! more shame for him,” thought Walter. 
After a minute’s pause, during which he had been look- 
ing down upon the gentle patient little face moving on 
at his side, he bestirred himself with his accustomed 
boyish animation and restlessness to change the subject ; 
and one of the unfortunate shoes coming off again op- 
portunely, proposed to carry Florence to his uncle’s in 
his arms. Florence, though very tired, laughingly de- 
clined the proposal, lest he should let her fall ; and as 
they were already near the wooden midshipman, and as 
Walter went on to cite various precedents, from ship- 
wrecks and other moving accidents, where younger boys 
than he had triumphantly rescued and carried off older 
girls than Florence, they were still in full conversation 
about it when they arrived at the Instrument-maker’s 
door. 

“ Halloa, Uncle Sol 1 ” cried Walter, bursting into the 
shop, and speaking incoherently and out of breath, from 
that time forth, for the rest of the evening. “ Here’s a 
wonderful adventure ! Here’s Mr. Dombey’s daughter 
lost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an old 
witch of a woman — found by me — brought home to 
our parlor to rest — look here ! ” 

“ Good Heaven ! ” said Uncle Sol, starting back against 
his favorite compass-case. “It can’t be! Well, I” — 

“No, nor anybody else,” said Walter, anticipating the 
rest. “ Nobody would, nobody could, you know. Here ! 
just help me lift the little sofa near the fire, will you, 
Uncle Sol — take care of the plates — cut home dinner 
for her, will you uncle — throw those shoes under the 
grate, Miss Florence — put your feet on the fender to 
dry — how damp they are — here’s an adventure, uncle, 
eh ? — God bless my soul, how hot I am!” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


121 


Solomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy, and in 
excessive bewilderment. He patted Florence’s head, 
pressed her to eat, pressed her to drink, rubbed the soles 
of her feet with his pocket-handkerchief heated at the 
fire, followed his locomotive nephew with his eyes, and 
ears, and had no clear perception of anything except that 
he was being constantly knocked against and tumbled 
over by that excited young gentleman, as he darted 
about the room attempting to accomplish twenty things 
at once, and doing nothing at all. 

“ Here, wait a minute, uncle,” he continued, catching 
up a candle, “ till I run up-stairs, and get another jacket 
on, and then I’ll be off. I say, uncle, isn’t this an ad- 
venture ? ” 

“ My dear boy,” said Solomon, who, with his spectacles 
on his forehead and the great chronometer in his pocket, 
was incessantly oscillating between Florence on the sofa 
and his nephew in all parts of the parlor, “ it’s the most 
extraordinary ” rj— 

“ No, but do, uncle, please — do, Miss Florence — 
dinner, you know, uncle.” 

“ Yes, yes, yes,” cried Solomon, cutting instantly into 
a leg of mutton, as if he were catering for a giant. “ I’ll 
take care of her, Wally! I understand. Pretty dear! 
Famished, of course. You go and get ready. Lord 
bless me ! Sir Richard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor 
of London ! ” 

Walter was not very long in mounting to his lofty 
garret and descending from it, but in the mean time 
Florence, overcome by fatigue, had sunk into a doze 
before the fire. The short interval of quiet, though only 
a few minutes in duration, enabled Solomon Gills so far 
to collect his wits as to make some little arrangements 


122 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


for her comfort, and to darken the room, and to screen 
her from the blaze. Thus, when the boy returned, she 
was sleeping peacefully. 

“ That’s capital ! ” he whispered, giving Solomon such 
ji hug that it squeezed a new expression into his face. 
“ Now I’m off. I’ll just take a crust of bread with me, 
for I’m very hungry — and — don’t wake her, Uncle 
Sol.” 

“ No, no,” said Solomon. “ Pretty child.” 

“ Pretty, indeed ! ” cried Walter. “ I never saw such 
a face, Uncle Sol. Now I’m off.” 

“ That’s right,” said Solomon, greatly relieved. 

“I say, Uncle Sol,” cried Walter, putting his face in 
at the door. 

“ Here he is again,” said Solomon. 

How does she look now ? ” 

“ Quite happy,” said Solomon. 

“ That’s famous ! now I’m off.” 

“ I hope you are,” said Solomon to himself. 

“ I say, Uncle Sol,” cried Walter, reappearing at the 
door. 

“ Here he is again ! ” said Solomon. 

“ We met Mr. Carker the junior in the street, queerer 
than ever. He bade me good-by, but came behind us 
here — there’s an odd thing ! — for when we reached 
the shop-door, I looked round, and saw him going quietly 
away, like a servant who had seen me home, or a faith- 
ful dog. How does she look now, uncle ? ” 

“ Pretty much the same as before, Wally,” replied 
Uncle Sol. 

“ That’s right. Now I am off! ” 

And thi* time he really was; and Solomon Gills, with 
no appetite for dinner, sat on the opposite side of the 


DOMBEY AND SON 


123 


fire, watching Florence in her slumber, building a great 
many airy castles of the most fantastic architecture ; and 
looking in the dim shade, and in the close vicinity of all 
the instruments, like a magician disguised in a Welsh 
wig and a suit of coffee color, who held the child in an 
enchanted sleep. 

In the mean time Walter proceeded towards Mr. 
Dombey’s house at a pace seldom achieved by a hack 
horse from the stand ; and yet with his head out of win- 
dow every two or three minutes, in impatient remon- 
strance with the driver. Arriving at his journey’s end, 
he leaped out, and breathlessly announcing his errand to 
the servant, followed him straight into the library, where 
there was a great confusion of tongues, and where Mr. 
Dombey, his sister, and Miss Tox, Richards, and Nip- 
per, were all congregated together. 

“ Oh ! I beg your pardon, sir,” said Walter, rushing 
up to him, “ but I’m happy to say it’s all right, sir. Miss 
Dombey’s found ! ” 

The boy with his open face, and flowing hair, and 
sparkling eyes, panting with pleasure and excitement, 
was wonderfully opposed to Mr. Dombey, as he sat con- 
fronting him in his library chair. 

“ I told you, Louisa, that she would certainly be 
found,” said Mr. Dombey, looking slightly over his 
shoulder at that lady, who wept in company with Miss 
Tox. “ Let the servants know that no further steps are 
necessary. This boy who brings the information, is 
young Gay, from the office. How was my daughter 
found, sir ? I know how she was lost.” Here he 
looked majestically at Richards. “ But how was she 
found ? who found her ? ” 

u Why, I believe I found Miss Dombey, sir,” said 


124 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Walter modestly; “at least I don’t know that I can 
claim the merit of having exactly found her, sir, but 1 
was the fortunate instrument of” — 

“ What do you mean, sir,” interrupted Mr. Dombey 
regarding the boy’s evident pride and pleasure in his 
share of the transaction with an instinctive dislike, “by 
not having exactly found my daughter, and by being a 
fortunate instrument ? Be plain and coherent, if you 
please.” 

It was quite out of Walter’s power to be coherent ; 
but he rendered himself as explanatory as he could, in 
his breathless state, and stated why he had come alone. 

“ You hear this, girl ? ” said Mr. Dombey sternly to 
the black-eyed. “ Take what is necessary, and return 
immediately with this young man to fetch Miss Florence 
home. Gay, you will be rewarded to-morrow.” 

“ Oh ! thank you sir,” said Walter. “ You are very 
kind. I’m sure I was not thinking of any reward, sir.” 

“You are a boy,” said Mr. Dombey, suddenly and 
almost fiercely ; “ and what you think of, or affect to 
think of, is of little consequence. You have done well, 
sir. Don t undo it. Louisa, please to give the lad some 
wine.” 

Mr. Dombey’s glance followed Walter Gay with sharp 
disfavor, as he left the room under the pilotage of Mrs. 
Chick ; and it may be that his mind’s eye followed him 
with no greater relish as he rode back to his uncle’s with 
Miss Susan Nipper. 

There they found that Florence, much refreshed by 
sleep, had dined, and greatly improved the acquaintance 
of Solomon Gills, with whom she was on terms of per- 
fect confidence and ease. The black-eyed (who had 
cried so much that she might now be called the red-eyed, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


125 


and who was very silent and depressed) caught her in 
her arms without a word of contradiction or reproach, 
and made a very hysterical meeting of it. Then con- 
verting the parlor for the nonce, into a private tiring 
room, she dressed her, with great care, in proper clothes; 
and presently led her forth, as like a Dombey as her 
natural disqualifications admitted of her being made. 

‘‘Good-night!” said Florence, running up to Solo- 
mon. “ You have been very good to me.” 

Old Sol was quite delighted, and kissed her like her 
grandfather. 

“ Good-night, Walter ! Good-by ! ” said Florence. 

“ Good-by ! ” said Walter, giving both his hands. 

“ I’ll never forget you,” pursued Florence. “ No ! in- 
deed I never will. Good-by, Walter ! ” 

In the innocence of her grateful heart, the child lifted 
up her face to his. Walter, bending down his own, 
raised it again, all red and burning ; and looked at Uncle 
Sol, quite sheepishly. 

“ Where’s Walter?” “ Good-night, Walter !” “Good- 
by, Walter!” “Shake hands, once more, Walter!” 
This was still Florence’s cry, after she was shut up with 
her little maid, in the coach. And when the coach at 
length moved off, Walter on the doorstep gayly returned 
the waving of her handkerchief, while the wooden mid- 
shipman behind him seemed, like himself, intent upon 
that coach alone, excluding all the other passing coaches 
from his observation. 

In good time Mr. Dombey’s mansion was gained again, 
and again there was a noise of tongues in the library. 
Again, too, the coach was ordered to wait — “ lor Mrs. 
Richards,” one of Susan’s fellow-servants ominously 
whispered, as she passed with Florence. 


126 


DOMBEY ANL SON. 


The entrance of the lost child made a slight sensa- 
tion, but not much. Mr. Dombey, who had never found 
her, kissed her once upon the forehead, and cautioned 
her not to run away again, or wander anywhere with 
treacherous attendants. Mrs. Chick stopped in her 
lamentations on the corruption of human nature, even 
when beckoned to the paths of virtue by a Charitable 
Grinder ; and received her with a welcome something 
short of the reception due to none but perfect Dombeys. 
Miss Tox regulated her feelings by the models before 
her. Richards, the culprit Richards, alone poured out 
her heart in broken words of welcome, and bowed her- 
self over the little wandering head as if she really 
loved it. 

“ Ah Richards ! ” said Mrs. Chick, with a sigh. “ It 
would have been much more satisfactory to those who 
wish to think well of their fellow-creatures, and much 
more becoming in you, if you had shown some proper 
feeling, in time, for the little child that is now going 
to be prematurely deprived of its natural nourishment.” 

“ Cut off,” said Miss Tox, in a plaintive whisper, 
“ from one common fountain ! ” 

“ If it was my ungrateful case,” said Mrs. Chick, 
solemnly, “ and I had your reflections, Richards, I should 
feel as if the Charitable Grinders’ dress would blight my 
child, and the education choke him.” 

For the matter of that — but Mrs. Chick didn’t know 
it — he had been pretty well blighted by the dress al- 
ready ; and as to the education, even its retributive effect 
might be produced in time, for it was a storm of sobs and 
blows. 

“ Louisa ! ” said Mr. Dombey. “ It is not necessary 
to prolong these observations. The woman is discharged 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


127 


and paid. You leave this house, Richards, for taking 
my son — my son,” said Mr. Dombey, emphatically re- 
peating these two words, “ into haunts and into society 
which are not to be thought of without a shudder. As 
to the accident which befell Miss Florence this morning, 
I regard that, as, in one great sense, a happy and fortu- 
nate circumstance; inasmuch as, but for that occurrence, 
1 never could have known — and from your own lips 
too — of what you had been guilty. I think, Louisa, 
the other nurse, the young person,” here Miss Nipper 
sobbed aloud, “ being so much younger, and necessarily 
influenced by Paul’s nurse, may remain. Have the 
goodness to direct that this woman’s coach is paid to ” — 
Mr. Dombey stopped and winced — “ to Staggs’s Gar- 
dens” 

Polly moved towards the door, with Florence holding 
to her dress, and crying to her in the most pathetic man- 
ner not to go away. It was a dagger in the haughty 
father’s heart, an arrow in his brain, to see how the flesh 
and blood he could not disown clung to this obscure 
stranger, and he sitting by. Not that he cared to whom 
his daughter turned, or from whom turned away. The 
swift sharp agony struck through him, as he thought of 
what his son might do. 

His son cried lustily that night, at all events. Sooth 
to say, poor Paul had better reason for his tears than 
sons of that age often have, for he had lost his second 
mother — his first, so far as he knew — by a stroke as 
sudden as that natural affliction which had darkened the 
beginning of his life, At the same blow, his sister too, 
who cried herself to sleep so mournfully, had lost as 
good and true a friend. But that is quite beside the 
question. Let us waste no wqr.cls about it. 


128 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER VII. 

. i 

A BIRD’ S KYE GLIMPSE OF MISS TOX’s DWELLING-PLACE 
ALSO OF THE STATE OF MISS TOX’s AFFECTIONS. 

Miss Tox inhabited a dark little house that had been 
squeezed, at some remote period of English History, into 
a fashionable neighborhood at the west end of the town, 
where it stood in the shade like a poor relation of the 
great street round the corner, coldly looked down upon 
by mighty mansions. It was not exactly in a court, and 
it was not exactly in a yard ; but it was in the dullest of 
No-Thoroughfares, rendered anxious and haggard bv 
distant double knocks. The name of this retirement, 
where grass grew between the chinks in the stone pave- 
ment, was Princess’s-place ; and in Princess’s-place was 
Princess’s Chapel, with a tinkling bell, where sometimes 
as many as five-and-twenty people attended service on a 
Sunday. The Princess’s Arms was also there, and much 
resorted to by splendid footmen. A sedan-chair was 
kept inside the railing before the Princess’s Arms, but 
it had never come out, within the memory of man ; and 
i-n fine mornings, the top of every rail (there are eight- 
? and-forty, as Miss Tox had often counted) was decorated 
with a pewter-pot. 

There was another private house besides Miss Tox’s 
in Princess’s-place : not to mention an immense pair of 
gates, with an immense pair of lion-headed knockers op 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


129 


them, which were never opened by any chance, and were 
supposed to constitute a disused entrance to somebody 
stables. Indeed, there was a smack of stabling in the air 
of Princess’s-place ; and Miss Tox’s bedroom (which was 
at the back) commanded a vista of Mews, where hos- 
tlers, at whatever sort of work engaged, were continu- 
ally accompanying themselves with effervescent noises ; 
and where the most domestic and confidential garments 
of coachmen and their wives and families, usually hung, 
like Macbeth’s banners, on the outward walls. 

At this other private house in Princess’s-place, ten- 
anted by a retired butler who had married a house-keeper, 
apartments were let Furnished, to a single gentleman : 
to wit a wooden-featured, blue-faced, Major, with his 
eyes starting out of his head, in whom Miss Tox recog- 
nized, as she herself expressed it, “ something so truly 
military ; ” and between whom and herself, an occasional 
interchange of newspapers and pamphlets, and such Pla- 
tonic dalliance, was effected through the medium of a 
dark servant of the major’s whom Miss Tox was quite 
content to classify as a “native,” without connecting him 
with any geographical idea whatever. 

Perhaps there never was a smaller entry and stair- 
case, than the entry and staircase of Miss Tox’s house. 
Perhaps, taken altogether, from top to bottom, it was 
the most inconvenient little house in England, and the 
crookedest; but then, Miss Tox said, what a situation ! 
There was very little daylight to be got there in the 
winter : no sun at the best of times : air was out of the 
question, and traffic was walled out. Still Miss Tox 
said, think of the situation ! So said the blue-faced 
major, whose eyes were starting out of his head : who 
gloried in Princess’s-place : and who delighted to turn 

VOL. 1. I 


130 


JDOMBEY AND SON. 


the conversation at his club, whenever he could, to some- 
thing connected with some of the great people in the 
great street round the corner, that he might have the 
satisfaction of saying they were his neighbors. 

The dingy tenement inhabited by Miss Tox was her 
own ; having been devised and bequeathed to her by the 
deceased owner of the fishy eye in the locket, of whom a 
miniature portrait, with a powdered head and a pigtail, 
balanced the kettle-holder on opposite sides of the parlor 
fire-place. The greater part of the furniture was of the 
powdered head and pigtail period : comprising a plate- 
warmer, always languishing and sprawling its four at- 
tenuated bow legs in somebody’s way ; and an obsolete 
harpsichord, illuminated round the maker’s name with a 
painted garland of sweet peas. 

Although Major Bagstock had arrived at what is 
called in polite literature, the grand meridian of life, 
and was proceeding on his journey down-hill with hardly 
any throat, and a very rigid pair of jaw-bones, and long- 
flapped elephantine ears, and his eyes and complexion in 
the state of artificial excitement already mentioned, he 
was mightily proud of awakening an interest in Miss 
Tox, and tickled his vanity with the fiction that she was 
a splendid woman who had her eye on him. This he 
had several times hinted at the club : in connection with 
little jocularities, of which old Joe Bagstock, old Joey 
Bagstock, old J. Bagstock, old Josh Bagstock, or so forth, 
was the perpetual theme : it being, as it were, the major’s 
stronghold and donjon-keep of light humor, to be on the 
most familiar terms with his own name. 

“Joey B., sir,” the major would say, with a flouri h 
of his walking-stick, “ is worth a dozen of you. If you 
had a few more of the Bagstock breed among you, sir. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


131 


you’d be none the worse for it. Old Joe, sir, needn’t 
look far for a wife even now, if he was on the look- 
out ; but he’s hard-hearted, sir, is Joe — he’s tough, sir, 
tough, and de-vilish sly ! ” After such a declaration 
wheezing sounds would be heard ; and the major’s blue 
would deepen into purple, while his eyes strained and 
started convulsively. 

Notwithstanding his very liberal laudation of him- 
self, however, the major was selfish. It may be doubted 
whether there ever was a more entirely selfish person 
at heart ; or at stomach is perhaps a better expression, 
seeing that he was more decidedly endowed with that 
latter organ than with the former. He had no idea of 
being overlooked or slighted by anybody ; least of all, 
had he the remotest comprehension of being overlooked 
and slighted by Miss Tox. 

And yet, Miss Tox, as it appeared, forgot him — 
gradually forgot him. She began to forget him soon 
after her discovery of the Toodle family. She continued 
to forget him up to the time of the christening. She 
went on forgetting him with compound interest after 
that. Something or somebody had superseded him as 
a source of interest. 

“ Good-morning, ma’am,” said the major, meeting Miss 
Tox in Princess’s-place, some weeks after the changes 
chronicled in the last chapter. 

“ Good-morning, sir,” said Miss Tox ; very coldly. 

“ Joe Bagstock, ma’am,” observed the major, with his 
usual gallantry, “ has not had the happiness of bowing 
to you at your window, for a considerable period. Joe 
has been hardly used, ma’am. His sun has been behind 
a cloud. 

Miss Tox inclined her head ; but very coldly indeed 


132 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Joe’s luminary has been out of town ma’am, per- 
haps,” inquired the major. 

“I? out of town ? oh no, I have not been out of 
town,” said Miss Tox. “ I have been much engaged 
lately. My time is nearly* all devoted to some very in- 
timate friends. I am afraid I have none to spare, even 
now. Good-morning, sin ! ” 

Ae Miss Tox, with her most fascinating step and car- 
riage; disappeared from Princess’s-place, the major stood 
looking after her with a bluer face than ever : mutter- 
ing and growling some not at all complimentary re- 
marks. 

“ Why, damme, sir,” said the major, rolling his lob- 
ster eyes round and round Princess’s-place, and apostro- 
phizing its fragrant air, “ six months ago, the woman 
loved the ground Josh Bagstock walked on. What’s the 
meaning of it ? ” 

The majur decided, after some consideration, that it 
meant man-traps ; that it meant plotting and snaring ; 
that Miss Tox was digging pitfalls. “ But you won’t 
catch Joe, ma’am,” said the major. “ He’s tough, ma’am, 
tough, is J. B. Tough, and de-vilish sly ! ” over which 
reflection he chuckled for the rest of the day. 

But still, when that day and many other days were 
gone and past, it seemed that Miss Tox took no heed 
whatever of the major, and thought nothing at all about 
him. She had been wont, once upon a time, to look out 
at one of her little dark windows by accident, and blu sh- 
ingly return the major’s greeting ; but now, she never 
gave the major a chance, and cared nothing at all 
whether he looked over the way or not. Other changes 
had come to pass too. The major, standing in the shade 
i>f his own apartment, could make out that an air of 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


133 


greater smartness had recently come over Miss Tox’s 
house ; that a new cage with gilded wires had been 
provided for the ancient little canary bird ; that divers 
ornaments, cut out of colored card-boards and paper, 
seemed to decorate the chimney-piece and tables ; that a 
plant or two had suddenly sprung up in the windows ; 
that Miss Tox occasionally practised on the harpsichord, 
whose garland of sweet peas was always displayed os- 
tentatiously, crowned with the Copenhagen and Bird 
Waltzes in a music-book of Miss Tox’s own copying. 

Over and above all this, Miss Tox had long been 
dressed with uncommon care and elegance in slight 
mourning. But this helped the major out of his dif- 
ficulty ; and he determined within himself that she had 
come into a small legacy, and grown proud. 

It was on the very next day after he had eased his 
mind by arriving at this decision, that the major, sit- 
ting at his breakfast, saw an apparition so tremendous 
and wonderful in Miss Tox’s little drawing-room, that he 
remained for some time rooted to his chair ; then, rush- 
ing into the next room returned with a double-barrelled 
opera-glass, through which he surveyed it in^Aitly for 
some minutes. & r 

“ It’s a Baby, sir,” said the major, shutting up the 
glass again, “ for fifty thousand pounds ! ” 

The major couldn’t forget it. He could do nothing 
but whistle, and stare to that extent, that his eyes com- 
pared with what they now became, had been in former 
times quite cavernous and sunken. Day after day, two, 
three, four times a week, this baby reappeared. The 
major continued to stare and whistle. To all other in- 
tents and purposes he was alone in Prineess’s-place, 
Miss Tox had ceased to mind what he did. He might 


134 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


have been black as well as blue, and it would have been 
of no consequence to her. 

The perseverance with which she walked out of Prin- 
cess’s-place to fetch this baby and its nurse, and walked 
back with them, and walked home with them again, and 
continually mounted guard over them ; and the perse- 
verance with which she nursed it herself, and fed it, and 
played with it, and froze its young blood with airs upon 
the harpsichord ; was extraordinary. At about the same 
period too, she was seized with a passion for looking at 
a certain bracelet ; also with a passion for looking at 
the moon, of which she would take long observations 
from her chamber-window. But whatever she looked 
at ; sun, moon, stars, or bracelets ; she looked no more 
at the major. And the major whistled, and stared, and 
wondered, and dodged about his room, and could make 
nothing of it. 

“ You’ll quite win my brother Paul’s heart, and that’s 
the truth, my dear,” said Mrs. Chick, one day. 

Miss Tox turned pale. 

“ He grows more like Paul every day,” said Mrs. 
Chick.f? -s. 

Miss Tox returned no other reply than by taking the 
little Paul in her arms, and making his cockade per- 
fectly flat and limp with her caresses. 

“ His mother, my dear,” said Miss Tox, “ whose ac- 
quaintance I was to have made through you, does he 
at all resemble her ? ” 

“ Not at all,” returned Louisa. 

“ She was — she was pretty, I believe?” faltered Miss 
Fox. 

“ Why, poor dear Fanny was interesting,” said Mrs. 
Chick, after some judicial consideration. “ Certainly in- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


135 


teresting. She had not that air of commanding supe- 
riority which one would somehow expect, almost as a 
matter of course, to find in my brother’s wife ; nor had 
she that strength and vigor of mind which such a man 
requires.” 

Miss Tox heaved a deep sigh. 

“ But she was pleasing ; ” said Mrs. Chick : “ ex- 
tremely so. And she meant I — oh, dear, how well poor 
Fanny meant ! ” 

“ You angel ! ” cried Miss Tox to little Paul. “ You 
picture of your own papa ! ” 

If the major could have known how many hopes and 
ventures, what a multitude of plans and speculations, 
rested on that baby head ; and could have seen them 
hovering, in all their heterogeneous confusion and dis 
order, round the puckered cap of the unconscious little 
Paul ; he might have stared indeed. Then would he 
have recognized, among the crowd, some few ambitious 
motes and beams belonging to Miss Tox : then would 
he perhaps have understood the nature of that lady’s 
faltering investment in the Dombey Firm. 

If the child himself could have awakened in the night, 
and seen, gathered about his cradle-curtains, faint re- 
flections of the dreams that other people had of him, 
they might have scared him, with good reason. But ho 
slumbered on, alike unconscious of the kind intentions 
of Miss Tox, the wonder of the major, the early sor- 
rows of his sister, and the sterner visions of his father j 
and innocent that any spot of earth contained a Dcm- 
bey or a Son. 


136 


DOMBEY AND SON- 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FA CL’S FURTHER PROGRESS, GROWTH, AND CHARACTER 

Beneath the watching and attentive eyes of Time 
— so far another Major — Paul’s slumbers gradually 
changed. More and more light broke in upon them ; 
distincter and distincter dreams disturbed them ; an ac- 
cumulating crowd of objects and impressions swarmed 
ibout his rest ; and so he passed from babyhood to 
childhood, and became a talking, walking, wondering 
Dombey. 

On the downfall and banishment of Richards, the nur- 
sery may be said to have been put into commission ; as a 
Public Department is sometimes, when no individual 
Atlas can be found to support it. The Commissioners 
were, of course, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox : who de- 
voted themselves to their duties with such astonishing 
ardor that Major Bagstock had every day some new re- 
minder of his being forsaken, while Mr. Chick, bereft of 
domestic supervision, cast himself upon the gay world, 
dined at clubs and coffee-houses, smelt of smoke on three 
distinct occasions, went to the play by himself, and in 
short, loosened (as Mrs. Chick once told him) every 
social bond, and moral obligation. 

Yet, in spite of his early promise, all this vigilance 
and care could not make little Paul a thriving boy. 
Naturally delicate, perhaps, he pined and wasted after 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


137 


the dismissal of his nurse, and, for a long time, seemed 
but to wait his opportunity of gliding through their 
hands, and seeking his lost mother. This dangerous 
ground in his steeple-chase towards manhood passed, he 
still found it very rough riding, and was grievously beset 
by all the obstacles in his course. Every tooth was a 
breakneck fence, and every pimple in the measles a 
stone wall to him. He was down in every fit of the 
whooping-cough, and rolled upon and crushed by a whole 
field of small diseases, that came trooping on each other’s 
heels to prevent his getting up again. Some bird of 
prey got into his throat instead of the thrush ; and the 
very chickens turning ferocious — if they have anything 
to do with that infant malady to which they lend their 
name — worried him like tiger-cats. 

The chill of Paul’s christening had struck home, per- 
haps to some sensitive part of his nature, which could 
not recover itself in the cold shade of his father ; but he 
was an unfortunate child from that day. Mrs. Wickam 
often said she never see a dear so put upon. 

Mrs. Wickam was a waiter’s wife — which would seem 
equivalent to being any other man’s widow — whose ap- 
plication for an engagement in Mr. Doinbey’s service had 
been favorably considered, on account of the apparent 
impossibility of her having any followers, or any one to 
follow ; and who, from within a day or two of Paul’s 
sharp weaning, had been engaged as his nurse. Mrs. 
Wickam was a meek woman, of a fair complexion, with 
her eyebrows always elevated, and her head always 
drooping ; who was always ready to pity herself, or to be 
pitied, or to pity anybody else ; and who had a surprising 
natural gift of viewing all subjects in an utterly forlorn 
and pitiable light, and bringing dreadful precedents to 


138 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


bear upon them, and deriving the greatest consolation 
from the exercise of that talent. 

It is hardly necessary to observe, that no touch of this 
quality ever reached the magnificent knowledge of Mr. 
Dombey. It would have been remarkable, indeed, if 
any had ; when no one in the house — not even Mrs. 
Chick or Miss Tox — dared ever whisper to him that 
there had, on any one occasion, been the least reason for 
uneasiness in reference to little Paul. He had settled, 
within himself, that the child must necessarily pass through 
a certain routine of minor maladies, and that the sooner 
he did so the better. If he could have bought him off, 
or provided a substitute, as in the case of an unlucky 
drawing for the militia, he would have been glad to do 
so on liberal terms. But as this was not feasible, he 
merely wondered, in his haughty manner, now and then, 
what Nature meant by it ; and comforted himself with 
the reflection that there was another milestone passed 
upon the road, and that the great end of the journey lay 
so much the nearer. For the feeling uppermost in his 
mind, now and constantly intensifying, and increasing in 
it as Paul grew older, was impatience. Impatience for 
the time to come, when his visions of their united conse* 
quence and grandeur would be triumphantly realized. 

Some philosophers tell us that selfishness is at the root 
of our best loves and affections. Mr. Dombey’s young 
child was, from the beginning, so distinctly important to 
him as a part of his own greatness, or (which is the 
same thing) of the greatness of Dombey and Son, that 
there is no doubt his parental affection might have been 
easily traced, like many a goodly superstructure of fair 
Fame, to a very low foundation. But he loved his son 
with all the lov:- he had. If there were a warm place 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


isy 

in his frosty heart, his son occupied it ; if its very hard 
surface could receive the impression of any image, 
the image of that son was there ; though not so much as 
an infant, or as a boy, but as a grown man — the “ Son ” 
of the Firm. Therefore he was impatient to advance 
into the future, and to hurry over the intervening pas- 
sages of his history. Therefore he had little or no anx- 
iety about them, in spite of his love ; feeling as if the 
boy had a charmed life, and must become the man with 
whom he held such constant communication in his 
thoughts, and for whom he planned and projected, as 
for an existing reality, every day. 

Thus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was 
a pretty little fellow ; though there was something wan 
and wistful in his small face, that gave occasion to many 
significant shakes of Mrs. Wickam’s head, and many 
long-drawn inspirations of Mrs. Wickam’s breath. His 
temper gave abundant promise of being imperious in 
after-life ; and he had as hopeful an apprehension of his 
own importance, and the rightful subservience of all 
other things and persons to it, as heart could desire. He 
was childish and sportive enough at times, and not of a 
sullen disposition ; but he had a strange old-fashioned, 
thoughtful way, at other times, of sitting brooding in his 
miniature arm-chair, when he looked (and talked) like 
one of those terrible little Beings in the Fairy tales, 
who, at a hundred and fifty or two hundred years of 
age, fantastically represent the children for whom they 
have been substituted. He would frequently be stricken 
with this precocious mood up-stairs in the nursery ; and 
would sometimes lapse into it suddenly, exclaiming that 
he was tired : even while playing with Florence, or 
driving Miss Tox in single harness. But at no time 


140 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


did he fall inlo it so surely, as when, his little chair being 
carried down into his father’s room, he sat there with 
him after dinner, by the fire. They were the strangest 
pair at such a time that ever firelight shone upon. Mr. 
Dombey so erect and solemn, gazing at the blazfc ; his 
little image, with an old, old, face, peering into the red 
perspective with the fixed and rapt attention of a sage. 
Mr. Dombey entertaining complicated worldly schemes 
and plans ; the little image entertaining Heaven knows 
what wild fancies, half-formed thoughts, and wandering 
speculations. Mr. Dombey stiff with starch and arro- 
gance ; the little image by inheritance, and in uncon- 
scious imitation. The two so very much alike, and yet 
so monstrously contrasted. 

On one of these occasions, when they had both been 
perfectly quiet for a long time, and Mr. Dombey only 
knew that the child was awake by occasionally glancing 
at his eye, where the bright fire was sparkling like a 
jewel, little Paul broke silence thus : — 

“ Papa ! what’s money ? ” 

The abrupt question had such immediate reference to 
the subject of Mr. Dombey’s thoughts, that Mr. Dombey 
was quite disconcerted. 

“ What is money, Paul ?” he answered. “ Money ? ” 
“ Yes,” said the child, laying his hands upon the el- 
bows of his little chair, and turning the old face up tow- 
ards Mr. Dombey’s ; “ what is money ? ” 

Mr. Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have 
liked to give him some explanation involving the terms 
circulating-medium, currency, depreciation of currency, 
paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of precious met- 
als in the market, and so forth ; but looking down at the 
little chair, and seeing whai a long way down it was, he 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


141 


answered : “ Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas, 
shillings, half-pence. You know what they are?” 

“ Oh yes, I know what they are,” said Paul. “ I don’t 
mean that, papa. I mean what’s money after all.” 

Heaven and Earth, how old his face was as he turned 
it up again towards his father’s ! 

“ What is money after all ! ” said Mr. Dombey, back- 
ing his chair a little, that he might the better gaze in 
sheer amazement at the presumptuous atom that pro- 
pounded such an inquiry. 

“ I mean, papa, what can it do ? ” returned Paul, fold- 
ing his arms (they were hardly long enough to fold), and 
looking at the fire, and up at him, and at the fire, and up 
at him again. 

Mr. Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, 
and patted him on the head. “ You’ll know better by 
and by, my man,” he said. “ Money, Paul, can do any- 
thing.” He took hold of the little hand, and beat it 
softly against one of his own, as he said so. 

But Paul got his hand free as soon as he could ; and 
rubbing it gently to and fro on the elbow of his chair, as 
if his wit were in the palm, and he were sharpening it 
* — and looking at the fire again, as though the fire had 
been his adviser and prompter — repeated, after a short 
pause : — 

“ Anything, papa ? ” 

“ Yes. Anything — almost,” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Anything means everything, don’t it, papa ? ” asked 
his son : not observing, or possibly not understanding, the 
qualification. 

“ It includes it : yes,” said Mr. Dombey. 

u Why didn’t money save me my mama ? ” returned 
the child. “ It isn’t cruel, is it ? ” 


142 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Cruel ! ” said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth* 
and seeming to resent the idea. “ No. A good thing 
can’t be cruel.” 

“ If it’s a good thing, and can do anything,” said the 
little fellow, thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, 
u I wonder why it didn’t save me my mama.” 

He didn’t ask the question of his father this time. 
Perhaps he had seen, with a child’s quickness, that it 
had already made his father uncomfortable. But he re- 
peated the thought aloud, as if it were quite an old one 
to him, and had troubled him very much ; and sat with 
his chin resting on his hand, still cogitating and looking 
for an explanation in the fire. 

Mr. Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not 
to say his alarm (for it was the very first occasion on 
which the child had ever broached the subject of his 
mother to him, though he had had him sitting by his 
side, in this same manner, evening after evening), ex- 
pounded to him how that money, though a very potent 
spirit, never to be disparaged on any account whatever, 
could not keep people alive whose time was come to die ; 
and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the 
city, though we were never so rich. But how that money 
caused us to be honored, feared, respected, courted, and 
admired, and made us powerful and glorious in the eyes 
of all men ; and how that it could, very often, even keep 
off death, for a long time together. How, for example, 
it had secured to his mama the services of Mr. Pilkins, 
by which he, Paul, had often profited himself; likewise 
of the great Doctor Parker Peps, whom he had never 
known. And how it could do all, that could be done. 
This, with more to the same purpose, Mr. Dombey in- 
stilled into the mind of his son, who listened attentively. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


143 


and seemed to understand the greater part of what was 
said to him. 

“ It can’t make me strong and quite well, either, papa ; 
can it ? ” asked Paul, after a short silence ; rubbing his 
tiny hands. 

“ Why, you are strong and quite well,” returned Mr. 
Dombey. “ Are you not ? ” 

Oh ! the age of the face that was turned up again, 
with an expression, half of melancholy, half of slyness, 
on it ! 

“ You are as strong and well as such little people 
usually are ? Eh ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Florence is older than I am, but I’m not as strong 
and well as Florence, I know,” returned the child ; “ but 
I believe that when Florence was as little as me, she 
could play a great deal longer at a time without tiring 
herself. I am so tired sometimes,” said little Paul, 
warming his hands, and looking in between the bars of 
the grate, as if some ghostly puppet-show were perform- 
ing there, “ and my bones ache so (Wickam says it’s my 
bones), that I don’t know what to do.” 

“ Ay ! But that’s at night,” said Mr. Dombey, draw- 
ing his own chair closer to his son’s, and laying his hand 
gently on his back ; “ little people should be tired at 
night, for then they sleep well.” 

“ Oh, it’s not at night, papa,” returned the child, “ it’s 
in the day ; and I lie down in Florence’s lap, and she 
sings to me. At night I dream about such cu-ri-ous 
things ! ” 

And he went on, warming his hands again, and think- 
ing about them, like an old man or a young goblin. 

Mr. Dombey was so astonished, and so uncomfortable, 
and so perfectly at a loss how to pursue the conversation, 


144 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that he could only sit looking at his son by the light of 
the fire, with his hand resting on his back, as if it w ere 
detained there by some magnetic attraction. Once he 
advanced his other hand, and turned the contemplative 
face towards his own for a moment. But it sought the 
fire again as soon as he released it; and remained, ad- 
dressed towards the flickering blaze, until the nurse 
appeared, to summon him to bed. 

u I want Florence to come for me,” said Paul. 

“ Won’t you come with your poor Nurse Wickam, 
Master Paul ? ” inquired that attendant, with great 
pathos. 

“ No, I won’t,” replied Paul, composing himself in his 
arm-chair again, like the master of the house. 

Invoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs. Wickam 
withdrew, and presently Florence appeared in her stead. 
The child immediately started up with sudden readiness 
and animation, and raised towards his father in bidding 
him good-night, a countenance so much brighter, so much 
younger, and so much more childlike altogether, that 
Mr. Dombey, while he felt greatly reassured by the 
change, was quite amazed at it. 

After they had left the room together, he thought he 
heard a soft voice singing ; and remembering that Paul 
had said his sister sung to him, he had the curiosity to 
open the door and listen, and look after them. She was 
toiling up the great, wide, vacant staircase, wdth him in 
her arms ; his head was lying on her shoulder, one of his 
arms thrown negligently round her neck. So they went, 
toiling up ; she singing all the way, and Paul sometimes 
crooning out a feeble accompaniment. Mr. Dombey 
looked after them until they reached the top of the stair- 
case — not without halting to rest by the w r ay — and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


145 


passed out of his sight; and then he still stood gazing 
upwards, until the dull rays of the moon, glimmering in 
a melancholy manner through the dim skylight, sent him 
back to his own room. 

Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox were convoked in council at 
dinner next day ; and when the cloth was removed, Mr 
Dombey opened the proceedings by requiring to be in 
formed, without any gloss or reservation, whether there 
was anything the matter with Paul, and what Mr. Pil- 
kins said about him. 

44 For the child is hardly,” said Mr. Dombey, 44 as 
stout as I could wish.” 

44 With your usual happy discrimination, my dear 
Paul,” returned Mrs. Chick, 44 you have hit the point at 
once. Our darling is not altogether as stout as we could 
wish. The fact is, that his mind is too much for him. 
His soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am 
sure the way in which that dear child talks ! ” said Mrs. 
Chick, shaking her head ; 44 no one would believe. His 
expressions, Lucretia, only yesterday upon the subject 
of funerals ! ” — 

44 1 am afraid,” said Mr. Dombey, interrupting her 
testily, 44 that some of those persons up-stairs suggest im- 
proper subjects to the child. He was speaking to me 
last night about his — about his bones,” said Mr. Dom- 
bey, laying an irritated stress upon the word. 4 * What 
on earth has anybody to do with the — with the — bones 
of iny son ? He is not a living skeleton, I suppose.” 

44 Very far from it,” said Mrs. Chick, with unspeak- 
able expression. 

44 1 hope so,” returned her brother. 44 Funerals again ! 
who talks to the child of funerals ? We are not under- 
takers, or mutes, or grave-diggers, I believe.” 

VOL. i. 10 


146 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Very far from it,” interposed Mrs. Chick, with the 
same profound expression as before. 

“ Then who puts such things into his head ? ” said Mr. 
Dombey. “ Really I was quite dismayed and shocked 
last night. Who puts such things into his head, Louisa?” 

“ My dear Paul,” said Mrs. Chick, after a moment's 
silence, “ it is of no use inquiring. I do not think, I will 
tell you candidly, that Wickam is a person of very cheer^ 
ful spirit, or what one would call a ” — 

“ A daughter of Momus,” Miss Tox softly suggested. 

“ P]xactly so,” said Mrs. Chick ; “ but she is exceed- 
ingly attentive and useful, and not at all presumptuous; 
indeed I never saw a more biddable woman. If the dear 
child,” pursued Mrs. Chick, in the tone of one who was 
summing up what had been previously quite agreed 
upon, instead of saying it all for the first time, “ is a 
little weakened by that last attack, and is not in quite 
such vigorous health as we could wish ; and if he has 
some temporary weakness in his system, and does oc- 
casionally seem about to lose, for the moment, the use 
of his” — 

Mrs. Chick was afraid to say limbs, after Mr. Dom- 
bey’s recent objection to bones, and therefore waited for 
a suggestion from Miss Tox, who, true to her office, 
hazarded “ members.” 

“ Members ! ” repeated Mr. Dombey. 

“ I think the medical gentleman mentioned legs this 
morning, my dear Louisa ; did he not ? ” said Miss Tox. 

“ Why, of course he did, my love,” retorted Mrs. 
Chick, mildly reproachful. “ How can you ask me ? 
You heard him. I say, if our dear Paul should lose, 
for the moment, the use of his legs, these are casualties 
common to many children at his time of life, and not to 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


147 


be prevented by any care or caution. The sooner you 
understand that, Paul, and admit that, the better.” 

“ Surely you must know, Louisa,” observed Mr. Dom- 
bey, “that I don’t question your natural devotion to, and 
natural regard for, the future head of my house. Mr. 
Pilkins saw Paul this morning, I believe ? ” said Mr. 
Dombey. 

“ Yes, he did,” returned his sister. “ Miss Tox and 
myself were present. Miss Tox and myself are always 
present. We make a point of it. Mr. Pilkins has seen 
him for some days past, and a very clever man I believe 
him to be. He says it is nothing to speak of ; which 1 
can confirm, if that is any consolation ; but he recom- 
mended, to-day, sea -air. Very wisely, Paul, I feel con- 
vinced.” 

“ Sea-air,” repeated Mr. Dombey, looking at his sis- 
ter. 

“ There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that,” 
said Mrs. Chick. “ My George and Frederick were both 
ordered sea-air, when they were about his age ; and I 
have been ordered it myself a great many times. I 
quite agree with you, Paul, that perhaps topics may be 
incautiously mentioned up-stairs before him, which it 
would be as well for his little mind not to expatiate 
upon ; but I really don’t see how that is to be helped in 
the case of a child of his quickness. If he were a 
common child, there would be nothing in it. I must say 
r think, with Miss Tox, that a short absence from this 
house, the air of Brighton, and the bodily and mental 
training of so judicious a person as Mrs. Pipchin for in- 
stance ” — 

“ Who is Mrs. Pipchin, Louisa ? ” asked Mr. Dombey ; 
aghast at this familiar introduction of a name he had 
never heard before. 


148 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Mrs. Pipchin, my dear Paul,” returned his sister, “ is 
an eldtrly lady — Miss Tox knows her whole history — 
who has for some time devoted all the energies of her 
mind, with the greatest success, to the study and treat- 
ment of infancy, and who has been extremely well con- 
nected. Her husband broke his heart in — how did you 
say her husband broke his heart, my dear? I forget the 
precise circumstances.” 

“ In pumping water out of the Peruvian Mines,” re- 
plied Miss Tox. 

“ Not being a Pumper himself, of course,” said Mrs. 
Chick, glancing at her brother ; and it really did seem 
necessary to offer the explanation, for Miss Tox had 
spoken of him as if he had died at the handle ; “ but 
having invested money in the speculation, which failed. 
I believe that Mrs. Pipchin’s management of children is 
quite astonishing. I have heard it commended in pri- 
vate circles ever since I was — dear me — how high !” 
Mrs. Chick’s eye wandered about the bookcase near the 
bust of Mr. Pitt, which was about ten feet * from the 
ground. 

“ Perhaps I should say of Mrs. Pipchin, my dear sir,” 
observed Miss Tox, with an ingenuous blush, “ having 
been so pointedly referred to, that the encomium which 
has been passed upon her by your sweet sister is well 
merited. Many ladies and gentlemen, now grown up to 
be interesting members of society, have been indebted 
to her care. The humble individual who addresses you 
was once under her charge. I believe juvenile nobility 
itself is no stranger to her establishment.” 

“ Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps 
an establishment, Miss Tox ? ” inquired Mr. Dombey, 
condescendingly. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


149 


“ Why, I really don’t know,” rejoined that lady, 
- whether I am justified in calling it so. It is not a 
Preparatory School by any means. Should I express 
my meaning,” said Miss Tox, with peculiar sweetness, 
“ if I designated it an infantine Boarding-House of a 
very select description ? ” 

“ On an exceedingly limited and particular scale,” sug- 
gested Mrs. Chick, with a glance at her brother. 

“Oh! Exclusion itself! ” said Miss Tox. 

There was something in this. Mrs. Pipchin’s husband 
having broken his heart of the Peruvian mines was 
good. It had a rich sound. Besides, Mr. Dombey was 
in a state almost amounting to consternation at the idea 
of Paul remaining where he was one hour after his re- 
moval had been recommended by the medical practi- 
tioner. It was a stoppage and delay upon the road the 
child must traverse, slowly at the best, before the goal 
was reached. Their recommendation of Mrs. Pipchin 
had great weight with him ; for he knew that, they were 
jealous of any interference with their charge, and he 
never for a moment took it into account that they might 
be solicitous to divide a responsibility, of which he had, 
as shown just now, his own established views. Broke 
his heart of the Peruvian mines, mused Mr. Dombey. 
Well, a very respectable way of doing it. 

“ Supposing we should decide, on to-morrow’s inqui- 
ries, to send Paul down to Brighton to this lady, who 
would go with him ? ” inquired Mr. Dombey, after some 
reflection. 

“ I don’t think you could send the child anywhere at 
present without Florence, my dear Paul,” returned his 
sister, hesitating. “ It’s quite an infatuation with him. 
He’s very young, you know, and has his fancies.” 


150 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Mr. Dombey turned his head away, and going slowly 
to the bookcase, and unlocking it, brought back a book 
to read. 

“ Anybody else, Louisa ? ” he said, without looking up, 
and turning over the leaves. 

“ Wickam, of course. Wiekam would be quite suffi- 
cient, I should say,” returned his sister. “ Paul being in 
such hands as Mrs. Pipchin’s, you could hardly send 
anybody who would be a further check upon her. You 
would go down yourself once a week at least, of course.” 

“ Of course,” said Mr. Dombey ; and sat looking at 
one page for an hour afterwards, without reading one 
word. 

This celebrated Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous ill- 
favored, ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, 
with a mottled face, like bad marble, a hook nose, and a 
hard gray eye, that looked as if it might have been ham- 
mered at on an anvil without sustaining any injury. 
Forty years at least had elapsed since the Peruvian 
mines had been the death of Mr. Pipchin ; but his relict 
still wore black bombazine, of such a lustreless, deep, dead, 
sombre shade, that gas itself couldn’t light her up after 
dark, and her presence was a quencher to any number 
of candles. She was generally spoken of as “ a great 
manager ” of children ; and the secret of her manage- 
ment, was, to give them everything that they didn’t like, 
and nothing that they did — which was found to sweeten 
their dispositions very much. She was such a bitter old 
lady, that one was tempted to believe there had been 
some mistake in the application of the Peruvian ma- 
chinery, and that all her waters of gladness and milk of 
human kindness had been pumped out dry, instead of 
the mines. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


151 


The castle of this ogress and child-queller was in a 
steep by-street at Brighton ; where the soil was more 
than usually chalky, flinty, and sterile, and the houses 
were more than usually brittle and thin ; where the 
small front-gardens had the unaccountable property of 
producing nothing but marigolds, whatever was sown in 
them ; and where snails were constantly discovered hold- 
ing on to the street-doors, and other public places they 
were not expected to ornament, with the tenacity of 
cupping-glasses. In the winter time the air couldn’t be 
got out of the castle, and in the summer time it couldn’t 
be got in. There was such a continual reverberation of 
wind in it, that it sounded like a great shell, which the 
inhabitants were obliged to hold to their ears night and 
day, whether they liked it or no. It was not, naturally, 
a fresh-smelling house ; and in the window of the front- 
parlor, which was never opened, Mrs. Pipchin kept a 
collection of plants in pots, which imparted an earthy fla- 
vor of their own to the establishment. However choice 
examples of their kind, too, these plants were of a kind 
peculiarly adapted to the embowerment of Mrs. Pipchin. 
There were half a dozen specimens of the cactus, writh- 
ing round bits of lath, like hairy serpents ; another speci- 
men shooting out broad claws, like a green lobster ; sev- 
eral creeping vegetables, possessed of sticky and adhesive 
leaves ; and one uncomfortable flower-pot hanging to the 
ceiling, which appeared to have boiled over, and tickling 
people underneath with its long green ends, reminded 
them of spiders — in which Mrs. Pipchin’s dwelling was 
uncommonly prolific, though perhaps it challenged com- 
petition still more proudly, in the season, in point of ear- 
wigs. 

Mrs. Pipchin’s scale of charges being high, however 


152 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to all who could afford to pay, and Mrs. Pipchin very 
seldom sweetening the equable acidity of her nature in 
favor of anybody, she was held to be an old lady of re- 
markable firmness, who was quite scientific in her knowl- 
edge of the childish character. On this reputation, and 
on the broken heart of Mr. Pipchin, she had contrived, 
taking one year with another, to eke out a tolerably suf- 
ficient living since her husband’s demise. Within three 
days after Mrs. Chick’s first allusion to her, this excel- 
lent old lady had the satisfaction of anticipating a hand- 
some addition to her current receipts, from the pocket of 
Mr. Dombey ; and of receiving Florence and her little 
brother Paul, as inmates of the castle. 

Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox, who had brought them 
down on the previous night (which they all passed 
at an hotel), had just driven away from the door, on 
their journey home again ; and Mrs. Pipchin, with her 
back to the fire, stood, reviewing the new-comers, like 
an old soldier. Mrs. Pipchin’s middle-aged niece, her 
good-natured and devoted slave, but possessing a gaunt 
and iron-bound aspect, and much afflicted with boils on 
her nose, was divesting Master Bitherstone of the clean 
collar he had worn on parade. Miss Pankey, the only 
other little boarder at present, had that moment been 
walked off to the castle dungeon (an empty apartment 
at the back, devoted to correctional purposes), for having 
sniffed thrice, in the presence of visitors. 

“ Well, sir,” said Mrs. Pipchin to Paul, “ how do you 
think you shall like me ? ” 

“ I don’t think I shall like you at all,” replied PauL 
U I want to go away. This isn’t my house.” 

“ No. It’s mine,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin. 

“It’s a very nasty one,” said Paul. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


153 


“ There’s a worse place in it than this, though,” said 
Mrs. Pipchin, “ where we shut up our had boys.” 

“ Has he ever been in it ? ” asked Paul : pointing out 
Master Bitherstone. 

Mrs. Pipchin nodded assent ; and Paul had enough to 
do, for the rest of that day, in surveying Master Bither- 
stone from head to foot, and watching all the workings 
of his countenance, with the interest attaching to a boy 
of mysterious and terrible experiences. 

At one o’clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the far 
inaceous and vegetable kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild 
little blue-eyed morsel of a child, who was shampooed 
every morning, and seemed in danger of being rubbed 
away, altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress 
herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before 
visitors ever went to Heaven. When this great truth 
had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was re- 
galed with rice ; and subsequently repeated the form of 
grace established in the castle, in which there was a 
special clause, thanking Mrs. Pipchin for a good dinner. 
Mrs. Pipchin’s niece, Berinthia, took cold pork. Mrs. 
Pipchin, whose constitution required warm nourishment, 
made a special repast of mutton-chops, which were 
brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelt 
very nice. 

As it rained after dinner, and they couldn’t go out 
walking on the beach, and Mrs. Pipchin’s constitution 
required rest after chops, they went away with Berry 
(otherwise Berinthia) to the dungeon ; an empty room 
looking out upon a chalk wall and a water-butt, and 
made ghastly by a ragged fireplace without any stove 
in it. Enlivened by company, however, this was the 
best place after all ; for Berry played with them there. 


154 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they 
did ; until Mrs. Pipchin knocking angrily at the wall, 
like the Cock-lane ghost revived, they left off, and Berry 
told them stories in a whisper until twilight. 

For tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread 
and butter, with a little black teapot for Mrs. Pipchin 
and Berry, and buttered toast unlimited for Mrs. Pip- 
chin, which was brought in, hot and hot, like the chops. 
Though Mrs. Pipchin got very greasy, outside, over this 
dish, it didn’t seem to lubricate her, internally, at all ; 
for she was as fierce as ever, and the hard gray eye 
knew no softening. 

After tea, Berry brought out a little work-box, with 
the Royal Pavilion on the lid, and fell to working bus- 
ily ; while Mrs. Pipchin, having put on her spectacles 
and opened a great volume bound in green baize, began 
to nod. And whenever Mrs. Pipchin caught herself 
falling forward into the fire, and woke up, she filliped 
Master Bitherstone on the nose for nodding too. 

At last it was the children’s bedtime, and after prayers 
they went to bed. As little Miss Pankey was afraid of 
sleeping alone in the dark, Mrs. Pipchin always made a 
point of driving her up-stairs herself, like a sheep ; and 
it was cheerful to hear Miss Pankey moaning long after- 
wards, in the least eligible chamber, and Mrs. Pipchin 
now and then going in to shake her. At about half-past 
nine o’clock the odor of a warm sweet-bread (Mrs. Pip- 
chin’s constitution wouldn’t go to sleep without sweet- 
bread) diversified the prevailing fragrance of the house, 
which Mrs. Wickam said was “ a smell of building ; ” 
and slumber fell upon the castle shortly after. 

The breakfast next morning was like the tea over* 
night, except that Mrs. Pipchin took her roll instead of 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


155 


toast, and seemed a little more irate when it was over. 
Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigree 
from Genesis (judiciously selected by Mrs. Pipchin), 
getting over the names with the ease and clearness of 
a person tumbling up the treadmill. That done, Miss 
Pankey was borne away to be shampooed ; and Master 
Bitherstone to have something else done to him with 
salt water, from which he always returned very blue and 
dejected. Paul and Florence went out in the mean time 
on the beach with Wickam — who was constantly in 
tears — and at about noon Mrs. Pipchin presided over 
some Early Readings. It being a part of Mrs. Pipchin’s 
system not to encourage a child’s mind to develop and 
expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by force 
like an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usually of 
a violent and stunning character : the hero — a naughty 
boy — seldom, in the mildest catastrophe, being finished 
off by anything less than a lion, or a bear. 

Such was life at Mrs. Pipchin’s. On Saturday Mr. 
Dombey came down ; and Florence and Paul would go 
to his hotel, and have tea. They passed the whole of 
Sunday with him, and generally rode out before dinner; 
and on these occasions Mr. Dombey seemed to grow, 
like Falstaff’s assailants, and instead of being one mail 
in buckram, to become a dozen. Sunday evening was 
the most melancholy evening in the week ; for Mrs. 
Pipchin always made a point of being particularly cross 
on Sunday nights. Miss Pankey was generally brought 
back from an aunt’s at Rottingdean, in deep distress ; 
and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives were all in 
India, and who was required to sit, between the services, 
in an erect position with his head against the parlor wall 
neither moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his 


156 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


young spirits that he once asked Florence, on a Sun- 
day night, if she could give him any idea of the way 
back to Bengal. 

But it was generally said that Mrs. Pipchin was a 
woman of system with children ; and no doubt she was. 
Certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after 
sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof. 
It was generally said, too, that it was highly creditable 
of Mrs. Pipchin to have devoted herself to this way of 
life, and to have made such a sacrifice of her feelings, 
and such a resolute stand against her troubles, when 
Mr. Pipchin broke his heart in the Peruvian mines. 

At this exemplary old lady, Paul would sit staring 
in his little arm-chair by the fire, for any length of 
time. He never seemed to know what weariness was, 
when he was looking fixedly at Mrs. Pipchin. He was 
not fond of her ; he was not afraid of her ; but in those 
old old moods of his, she seemed to have a grotesque 
attraction for him. There he would sit, looking at her, 
and warming his hands, and looking at her, until he 
sometimes quite confounded Mrs. Pipchin, ogress as she 
was. Once she asked him, when they were alone, what 
he was thinking about. 

“ You,” said Paul, without the least reserve. 

“ And what are you thinking about me ? ” asked Mrs. 
Pipchin. 

“ I’m thinking how old you must be,” said Paul. 

“ You mustn’t say such things as that, young gentle- 
man,” returned the dame. “ That’ll never do.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Paul. 

“ Because it’s not polite,” said Mrs. Pipchin, snappishly. 

‘‘Not polite?” said Paul. 

“ No.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


157 


“ It’s not polite,” said Paul, innocently, “ to eat all 
the mutton-chops and toast, Wickam says.” 

“ Wickam,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin, coloring, u is a 
wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy.” 

“ What’s that ? ” inquired Paul. 

u Never you mind, sir,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin. “ Re- 
member the story of the little boy that was gored to 
death by a mad bull for asking questions.” 

“ If the bull was mad,” said Paul, “ how did he know 
that the boy had asked questions ? Nobody can go and 
whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don’t believe that 
story.” 

“ You don’t believe it, sir ? ” repeated Mrs. Pipchin, 
amazed. 

“ No,” said Paul. 

“ Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, 
you little infidel?” said Mrs. Pipchin. 

As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, 
and had founded his conclusions on the alleged lunacy 
of the bull, he allowed himself to be put down for the 
present. But he sat turning it over in his mind, with 
such an obvious intention of fixing Mrs. Pipchin pres- 
ently, that even that hardy old lady deemed it prudent 
to retreat until he should have forgotten the subject. 

From that time, Mrs. Pipchin appeared to have some- 
thing of the same odd kind of attraction towards Paul, 
as Paul had towards her. She would make him move 
his chair to her side of the fire, instead of sitting op- 
posite ; and there he would remain in a nook between 
Mrs. Pipchin and the fender, with all the light of his 
little face absorbed into the black bombazine drapery, 
studying every line and wrinkle of her countenance, and 
peering at the hard gray eye until Mrs. Pipchin was 


158 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Bometimes fain to shut it, on pretence of dozing. Mrs. 
Pipchin had an old black cat, who generally lay coiled 
upon the centre foot of the fender, purring egotistically, 
and winking at the fire until the contracted pupils of 
his eyes were like two notes of admiration. The good 
old lady might have been — not to record it disrespect- 
fully — a witch, and Paul and the cat her two familiars, 
as they all sat by the fire together. It would have been 
quite in keeping with the appearance of the party if 
they had all sprung up the chimney in a high wind one 
night, and never been heard of any more. 

This, however, never came to pass. The cat, and 
Paul, and Mrs. Pipchin, were constantly to be found in 
their usual places after dark ; and Paul, eschewing the 
companionship of Master Bitherstone, went on studying 
Mrs. Pipchin, and the cat, and the fire, night after 
night, as if they were a book of necromancy, in three 
volumes. 

Mrs. Wickam put her own construction on Paul’s ec- 
centricities ; and being confirmed in her low spirits by a 
perplexed view of chimneys from the room where she 
was accustomed to sit, and by the noise of the wind, and 
by the general dulness (gashliness was Mrs. Wickam’s 
strong expression) of her present life, deduced the most 
dismal reflections from the foregoing premises. It was 
a part of Mrs. Pipchin’s policy to prevent her own 
“young hussy” — that was Mrs. Pipchin’s generic name 
for female servant — from communicating with Mrs. 
Wickam : to which end she devoted much of her time to 
concealing herself behind doors, and springing out on that 
devoted maiden, whenever she made an approach tow- 
ards Mrs. Wickam’s apartment. But Berry was free 
to hold what converse she could in that quarter con* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


159 


sistently with the discharge of the multifarious duties at 
which she toiled incessantly from morning to night ; and 
to Berry Mrs. Wickam unburdened her mind. 

“ What a pretty fellow he is when he’s asleep ! ” said 
Berry, stopping to look at Paul in bed, one night when 
she took up Mrs. Wickam’s supper. 

“ Ah ! ” sighed Mrs. Wickam. “ He need be.” 

“Why, he’s not ugly when he’s awake,” observed 
Berry. 

“ No, ma’am. Oh, no. No more was my uncle’s 
Betsey Jane,” said Mrs. Wickam. 

Berry looked as if she would like to trace the connec- 
tion of ideas between Paul Dombey and Mrs. Wickam’s 
uncle’s Betsey Jane. 

“My uncle’s wife,” Mrs. Wickam went on to say, 
“died just like his mama. My uncle’s child took on just 
as Master Paul do. My uncle’s child made people’s 
blood run cold, sometimes, she did ! ” 

“ How ? ” asked Berry. 

“ I wouldn’t have sat up all night alone with Betsey 
Jane ! ” said Mrs. Wickam, “ not if you’d have put 
Wickam into business next morning for himself. I 
couldn’t have done it Miss Berry.” 

Miss Berry naturally asked, w r hy not ? But Mrs. 
Wickam, agreeably to the usage of some ladies in her 
condition, pursued her own branch of the subject without 
any compunction. 

“ Betsey Jane,” said Mrs. Wickam, “ was as sweet ? 
child as I could wish to see. I couldn’t wish to see a 
6weeter. Everything that a child could have in the way 
of illnesses, Betsey Jane had come through. The cramps 
was as common to her,” said Mrs. Wickam, “ as biles is 
to yourself, Miss Berry.” Miss Berry involuntarily 
Wrinkled her no^e. 


160 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ But Betsey Jane,” said Mrs. Wickam, lowering her 
voice, and looking round the room, and towards Paul in 
bed, “ had been minded, in her cradle, by her departed 
mother. I couldn’t say how, nor I couldn’t say when, 
nor I couldn’t say whether the dear child knew it or not, 
but Betsey Jane had been watched by her mother, Miss 
Berry ! You may say nonsense ! I a’n’t offended, miss. 
I hope you may be able to think in your own conscience 
that it is nonsense ; you’ll find your spirits all the better 
for it in this — you’ll excuse my being so free — in this 
burying-ground of a place ; which is wearing of me 
down. Master Paul’s a little restless in his sleep. Pat 
his back, if you please.” 

“ Of course you think,” said Berry, gently doing what 
she was asked, “ that he has been nursed by his mother, 
too ? ” 

“ Betsey Jane,” returned Mrs. Wickam, in her most 
solemn tones, “ was put upon as that child has been put 
upon, and changed as that child has changed. I have 
seen her sit, often and often, think, think, thinking, like 
him. I have seen her look, often and often, old, old, old, 
like him. I have heard her, many a time, talk just like 
him. I consider that child and Betsey Jane on the same 
footing entirely, Miss Berry.” 

“ Is your uncle’s child alive ? ” asked Berry. 

“ Yes, miss, she is alive,” returned Mrs. Wickam with 
an air of triumph, for it was evident Miss Berry ex- 
pected the reverse ; “ and is married to a silver-chaser. 
Oh yes, miss, She is alive,” said Mrs. Wickam, laying 
strong stress on her nominative case. 

It being clear that somebody was dead, Mrs. Pipchin’s 
niece inquired who it was. 

“ I wouldn’t wish to make you uneasy,” returned Mrs. 
Wickam, pursuing her supper. “ Don’t ask me.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


161 


This was the surest way of being asked again. Miss 
Berry repeated her question, therefore ; and after some 
resistance, and reluctance, Mrs. Wickam laid down her 
knife, and again glancing round the room and at Paul, 
in bed, replied : — 

“ She took fancies to people ; whimsical fancies, some 
of them ; others, affections that one might expect to see 
— only stronger than common. They all died.” 

This was so very unexpected and awful to Mrs. Pip- 
chin’s niece, that she sat upright on the hard edge of the 
bedstead, breathing short, and surveying her informant 
with looks of undisguised alarm. 

Mrs. Wickam shook her left forefinger stealthily tow- 
ards the bed where Florence lay ; then turned it upside 
down, and made several emphatic points at the floor; 
immediately below which was the parlor in which Mrs. 
Pipchin habitually consumed the toast. 

“ Remember my words, Miss Berry,” said Mrs. 
Wickam, “ and be thankful that Master Paul is not too 
fond of you. I am, that he’s not too fond of me, I as- 
sure you ; though there isn’t much to live for — you’ll 
excuse my being so free — in this jail of a house ! ” 

Miss Berry’s emotion might have led to her patting 
Paul too hard on the back, or might have produced a 
cessation of that soothing monotony, but he turned in 
his bed just now, and, presently awaking, sat up in it 
with his hair hot and wet from the effects of some child- 
sh dream, and asked for Florence. 

She was out of her own bed at the first sound of his 
voice ; and bending over his pillow immediately, sung 
him to sleep again. Mrs. Wickam shaking her head, 
and letting fall several tears, pointed out the little group 
to Berry, and turned her eyes up to the ceiling. 

VOL. i. 11 


162 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Good-night, miss ! ” said Wickam, softly. “ Good- 
night ! Your aunt is an old lady, Miss Berry, and it’s 
what you must have looked for, often.” 

This consolatory farewell, Mrs. Wickam accompanied 
with a look of heartfelt anguish ; and being left alone 
with the two children again, and becoming conscious that 
the wind was blowing mournfully, she indulged in mel- 
ancholy — that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries 
— until she was overpowered by slumber. 

Although the niece of Mrs. Pipchin did not expect to 
find that exemplary dragon prostrate on the hearth-rug 
when she went down-stairs, she was relieved to find her 
unusually fractious and severe, and with every present 
appearance of intending to live a long time to be a com- 
fort to all who knew her. Nor had she any symptoms 
of declining, in the course of the ensuing week, when the 
constitutional viands still continued to disappear in reg- 
ular succession, notwithstanding that Paul studied her as 
attentively as ever, and occupied his usual seat between 
the black skirts and the fender, with unwavering con- 
stancy. 

But as Paul himself was no stronger at the expiration 
of that time than he had been on his first arrival, though 
he looked much healthier in the face, a little carriage 
was got for him, in which he could lie at his ease, with 
an alphabet and other elementary works of reference, 
and be wheeled down to the sea-side. Consistent in his 
odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad who was 
proposed as the drawer of this carriage, and selected, 
instead, his grandfather — a weazen, old, crab-faced 
man, in a suit of battered oilskin, who had got tough and 
stringy from long pickling in salt water, and who smelt 
like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


163 


With this notable attendant to pull him along, and 
Florence always walking by his side, and the despondent 
Wickam bringing up the rear, he went down to the 
margin of the ocean every day ; and there he would sit 
or lie in his carriage for hours together : never so dis- 
tressed as by the company of children — Florence alone 
excepted, always. 

“ Go away, if you please,” he would say to any child 
who came to bear him company. “ Thank you, but I 
don’t want you.” 

Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he 
was, perhaps. 

u 1 am very well, I thank you,” he would answer. 
“ But you had better go and play, if you please.” 

Then he would turn his head, and watch the child 
away, and say to Florence, “ We don’t want any others, 
do we ? Kiss me, Floy.” 

He had even a dislike, at such times, to the company 
of Wickam, and was well pleased when she strolled 
away, as she generally did, to pick up shells and ac- 
quaintances. His favdrite spot was quite a lonely one, 
far away from most loungers ; and with Florence sitting 
by his side at work, or reading to him, or talking to him, 
and the wind blowing on his face, and the water coming 
up among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing 
more. 

u Floy,” he said one day, “ where’s India, where that 
boy’s friends live ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s a long, long distance off,” said Florence, rais- 
ing her eyes from her work. 

“ Weeks off ? ” asked Paul. 

“ Yes, dear. Many weeks’ journey, night and day.” 

“ If you were in India, Floy,” said Paul, after being 


161 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


silent for a minute, “ I should — what is that mama did ? 
I forget.” 

“ Loved me ! ” answered Florence. 

“ No, no. Don’t I love you now, Floy ? What is it? 

Died. If you were in India, I should die, Floy.” 

She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head 
down on his pillow, caressing him. And so would she, 
she said, if he were there. He would be better soon. 

“ Oh ! I am a great deal better now ! ” he answered. 
“ I don’t mean that. I mean that I should die of being 
so sorry and so lonely, Floy ! ” 

Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and 
slept quietly for a long time. Awaking suddenly, he 
listened, started up and sat listening. 

Florence asked him what he thought he heard. 

“ I want to know what it says,” he answered, looking 
steadily in her face. “ The sea, Floy, what is it that it 
keeps on saying ? ” 

She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling 
waves. 

“ Yes, yes,” he said. “ But I ’know that they are al- 
ways saying something. Always the same thing. What 
place is over there ? ” He rose up, looking eagerly at 
the horizon. 

She told him that there was another country opposite, 
but he said he didn’t mean that ; he meant farther away 
— farther away ! 

Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, lie 
would break off, to try to understand what it was that 
the waves were always saying ; and would rise up in his 
couch to look towards that invisible region far away. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


165 


CHAPTER IX. 

tti WHICH THE WOODEN MIDSHIPMAN GETS INTO TROUBLE. 

That spice of romance and love of the marvellous, 
of which there was a pretty strong infusion in the nature 
of young Walter Gay, and which the guardianship of 
his uncle, old Solomon Gills, had not very much weak- 
ened by the waters of stern practical experience, was the 
occasion of his attaching an uncommon and delightful 
interest to the adventure of Florence with Good Mrs. 
Brown. He pampered and cherished it in his memory, 
especially that part of it with which he had been associ- 
ated : until it became the spoiled child of his fancy, and 
took its own way, and did what it liked with it. 

The recollection of those incidents, and his own share 
in them, may have been made the more captivating, per- 
haps, by the weekly dreamings of old Sol and Captain 
Cuttle on Sundays. Hardly a Sunday passed, without 
mysterious references being made by one or other of 
these worthy chums to Richard Whittington ; and the 
latter gentleman had even gone so far as to purchase a 
ballad of considerable antiquity, that had long fluttered 
among many others, chiefly expressive of maritime sen- 
timents, on a dead wall in the Commercial-road : which 
poetical performance set forth the courtship and nuptials 
of a promising young coal-whipper with a certain “ love- 
ly Peg,” the accomplished daughter of the master and 


166 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


part-owner of a Newcastle collier. In this stirring le- 
gend, Captain Cattle descried a profound metaphysical 
bearing on the case of Walter and Florence ; and it 
excited him so much, that on very festive occasions, as 
birthdays and a few other non-Dominical holidays, he 
would roar through the whole song in the little back-par- 
lor ; making an amazing shake on the word Pe — e — eg, 
with which every verse concluded, in compliment to the 
heroine of the piece. 

But a frank, free-spirited, open-hearted boy, is not 
much given to analyzing the nature of his own feel- 
ings, however strong their hold upon him : and Walter 
would have found it difficult to decide this point. He 
had a great affection for the wharf where he had en- 
countered Florence, and for the streets (albeit not en- 
chanting in themselves) by which they had come home. 
The shoes that had so often tumbled off by the way, he 
preserved in his own room ; and, sitting in the little back- 
parlor of an evening, he had drawn a whole gallery of 
fancy portraits of Good Mrs. Brown. It may be that 
he became a little smarter in his dress, after that memo- 
rable occasion ; and he certainly liked in his leisure time 
to walk towards that quarter of the town where Mr. 
Dombey’s house was situated, on the vague chance of 
passing little Florence in the street. But the sentiment 
of all this was as boyish and innocent as could be. 
Florence w r as very pretty, and it is pleasant to admire a 
pretty face. Florence was defenceless and weak, and it 
was a proud thought that he had been able to rendei 
her any protection and assistance. Florence was the 
most grateful little creature in the world, and it was de- 
lightful to see her bright gratitude beaming in her face. 
Florence was neglected and coldly looked upon, and his 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


167 


breast was full of youthful interest for the slighted child 
in her dull, stately home. 

Thus it came about that, perhaps some half a dozen 
times in the course of the year, Walter pulled off his hat 
to Florence in the street, and Florence would stop to 
shake hands. Mrs. Wickam (who with a characteristic 
alteration of his name invariably spoke of him as 
u Young Graves ”) was so well used to this, knowing 
the story of their acquaintance, that she took no heed of 
it at all. Miss Nipper, on the other hand, rather looked 
out for these occasions : her sensitive young heart being 
secretly propitiated by Walter’s good looks, and inclining 
to the belief that its sentiments were responded to. 

In this way, Waiter, so far from forgetting or losing 
sight of his acquaintance with Florence, only remem- 
bered it better and better. As to its adventurous begin- 
ning, and all those little circumstances which gave it a 
distinctive character and relish, he took them into ac- 
count, more as a pleasant story very agreeable to his im- 
agination, and not to be dismissed from it, than as a part 
of any matter of fact with which he was concerned. 
They set off Florence very much, to his fancy ; but 
not himself. Sometimes, he thought (and then he walked 
very fast) what a grand thing it would have been for 
him to have been going to sea on the day after that first 
meeting, and to have gone, and to have^done wonders 
there, and to have stopped away a long time, and to have 
come back an admiral of all the colors of the dolphin, or 
at least a post-captain with epaulettes of insupportable 
brightness, and have married Florence (then a beautiful 
jroung woman) in spite of Mr. Dombey’s teeth, cravat, 
and watch-chain, and borne her away to the blue shores 
of somewhere or other, triumphantly. But these flights 


168 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


of fancy seldom burnished the brass plate of Dombey 
and Son’s offices into a tablet of golden hope, or shed a 
brilliant lustre on their dirty skylights ; and when the 
captain and Uncle Sol talked about Richard Whittington 
and masters’ daughters, Walter felt that he understood 
his true position at Dombey and Son’s, much better than 
they did. 

So it was that he went on doing what he had to do 
from day to day, in a cheerful, pains-taking, merry 
spirit; and saw through the sanguine complexion of 
Uncle Sol and Captain Cuttle; and yet entertained a 
thousand indistinct and visionary fancies of his own, to 
which theirs were work-a-day probabilities. Such was 
his condition at the Pipchin period, when he looked a 
little older than of yore, but not much ; and was the 
same light-footed, light-hearted, light-headed lad, as when 
he charged into the parlor at the head of Uncle Sol and 
the imaginary boarders, and lighted him to bring up the 
Madeira. 

“Uncle Sol,” said Walter, “I don’t think you’re 
well. You haven’t eaten any breakfast. I shall bring 
a doctor to you, if you go on like this.” 

“ He can’t give me what I want, my boy,” said Uncle 
Sol. “ At least he is in good practice if he can — and 
then he wouldn’t.” 

u Wkat is it, uncle ? Customers ? ” 

“ Ay,” returned Solomon, with a sigh. “ Customers 
would do.” 

u Confound it, uncle ! ” said Walter, putting down his 
breakfast-cup with a clatter, and striking his hand on the 
table : “ when I see the people going up and down the 
street in shoals all day, and passing and repassing the 
6hop every minute by scores, I feel half tempted to rush 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


169 


out, collar somebody, bring him in, and maize him buy 
fifty pounds’ worth of instruments for ready money. 
What are you looking in at the door for ? ” — con- 
tinued Walter, apostrophizing an old gentleman with a 
powdered head (inaudibly to him of course), who was 
staring at a ship’s telescope with all his might and 
main “ That's no use. I could do that. Come in 
and buy it ! ” 

The old gentleman, however, having satiated his curi- 
osity, walked calmly away. 

“ There he goes ! ” said Walter. “ That’s the way 
with ’em all. But uncle — I say, Uncle Sol ” — for the 
old man was meditating, and had not responded to his 
first appeal. “ Don’t be cast down. Don’t be out of 
spirits, uncle. When orders do come, they’ll come in 
such a crowd, you won’t be able to execute ’em.” 

“ I shall be past executing ’em, whenever they come, 
my boy,” returned Solomon Gills. “ They’ll never 
come to this shop again, till I am out of it.” 

“I say, uncle! You mustn’t really, you know!” 
urged Walter. ‘‘Don’t!” 

Old Sol endeavored to assume a cheery look, and 
smiled across the little table at him as pleasantly as he 
could. 

“ There’s nothing more than usual the matter ; is 
there, uncle ? ” said Walter, leaning his elbows on the 
tea-tray, and bending over, to speak the more confiden- 
tially and kindly. “ Be open with me, uncle, if there is, 
and tell me all about it.” 

“ No, no, no,” returned Old Sol. “ More than usual ? 
No, no. What should there be the matter more than 
lsual ? ” 

Walter answered with an incredulous shake of his 


170 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


head. “ That’s what I want to know,” he said, u and 
you ask me / I’ll tell you what, uncle, when I see you 
like this, I am quite sorry that I live with you.” 

Old Sol opened his eyes involuntarily. 

“ Yes. Though nobody ever was happier than I am 
and always have been with you, I am quite sorry that I 
live with you, when I see you with anything on your 
mind.” 

“ I am a little dull at such times, I know,” observed 
Solomon, meekly rubbing his hands. 

“What I mean, Uncle Sol,” pursued Walter, bending 
over a little more to pat him on the shoulder, “ is, that 
then I feel you ought to have, sitting here and pouring 
out the tea, instead of me, a nice little dumpling of a 
w T ife, you know — a comfortable, capital, cosey old lady, 
who was just a match for you, and knew how to manage 
you, and keep you in good heart. Here am I, as loving 
a nephew as ever was (I am sure I ought to be !) but I 
am only a nephew, and I can’t be such a companion to 
you when you’re low and out of sorts as she would have 
made herself, years ago, though I’m sure I’d give any 
money if I could cheer you up. And so I say, when I 
see you with anything on your mind, that I feel quite 
sorry you haven’t got somebody better about you than a 
blundering young rough-and-tough boy like me, who has 
got the will to console you, uncle, but hasn’t got the way 
— hasn’t got the way,” repeated Walter, reaching over 
farther yet, to shake his uncle by the hand. 

“ Wally, my dear boy,” said Solomon, “ if the cosey 
little old lady had taken her place in this parlor five- 
and-forty years ago, I never could have been fonder of 
her than I am of you.” 

“/ know that, Uncle Sol,” returned Walter. “ Lord 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


171 


bless you, I know that. But you wouldn’t have had the 
whole weight of any uncomfortable secrets if she had 
been with you, because she would have known how to 
relieve you of ’em, and I don’t.” 

“ Yes, yes, you do,” returned the instrument-maker. 

“ Well then, what’s the matter, Uncle Sol ? ” said 
Walter, coaxingly. “ Come ! What’s the matter ? ” 

Solomon Gills persisted that there was nothing the 
matter ; and maintained it so resolutely, that his nephew 
had no resource but to make a very indifferent imitation 
of believing him. 

“ All I can say is, Uncle Sol, that if there is ” — 

“ But there isn’t,” said Solomon. 

“ Very well,” said Walter. “ Then I’ve no more to 
say ; and that's lucky, for my time’s up for going to busi- 
ness. I shall look in by and by when I’m out, to see 
how you get on, uncle. And mind, uncle ! I’ll never 
believe you again, and never tell you anything more 
about Mr. Carker the Junior, if I find out that you have 
been deceiving me ! ” 

Solomon Gills laughingly defied him to find out any- 
thing of the kind; and Walter, revolving in his thoughts 
all sorts of impracticable ways of making fortunes and 
placing the wooden midshipman in a position of inde- 
pendence, betook himself to the offices of Dombey and 
Son with a heavier countenance than he usually carried 
there. 

There lived in those days, round the corner — in 
Bishopsgate-street Without — one Brogley, sworn broker 
and appraiser, who kept a shop where every description 
of second-hand furniture was exhibited in the most un- 
comfortable aspect, and under circumstances and in com- 
binations the most completely foreign to its purpose. 


172 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Dozens of chairs hooked on to washing-stands, which 
with difficulty poised themselves on the shoulders of 
sideboards, which in their turn stood upon the wrong 
side of dining-tables, gymnastic with their legs upward 
on the tops of other dining-tables, were among its most 
reasonable arrangements. A banquet array of dish- 
covers, wine-glasses, and decanters, was generally to be 
seen spread forth upon the bosom of a four-post - bed- 
stead, for the entertainment of such genial company as 
half a dozen pokers, and a hall lamp. A set of window 
curtains, with no windows belonging to them, would be 
seen gracefully draping a barricade of chests of drawers, 
loaded with little jars from chemists’ shops ; while a 
homeless hearth-rug, severed from its natural companion 
the fireside, braved the shrewd east wind in its adversity, 
and trembled in melancholy accord with the shrill com- 
plainings of a cabinet piano, wasting away, a string a 
day, and faintly resounding to the noises of the street in 
its jangled and distracted brain. Of motionless clocks 
that never stirred a finger, and seemed as incapable of 
being successfully wound up, as the pecuniary affairs of 
their former owners, there was always great choice in 
Mr. Brogley’s shop ; and various looking-glasses, acci- 
dentally placed at compound interest of reflection and 
refraction, presented to the eye an eternal perspective 
of bankruptcy and ruin. 

Mr. Brogley himself was a moist-eyed, pink-complex- 
ioned, crisp-haired man, of a bulky figure and an easy 
temper — for that class of Caius Marius who sits upon 
the ruins of other people’s Carthages, can keep up his 
spirits well enough. He had looked in at Solomon’s 
shop sometimes, to ask a question about articles in Solo- 
mon’s way of business ; and Walter knew him sufficiently 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


173 


to give him good-day when they met in the street, but 
as that was the extent of the broker’s acquaintance with 
Solomon Gills also, Walter was not a little surprised 
when he came back in the course of the forenoon, agree- 
ably to his promise, to find Mr. Brogley sitting in the 
back-parlor with his hands in his pockets, and his hat 
hanging up behind the door. 

“Well, Uncle Sol!” said Walter. The old man was 
sitting ruefully on the opposite side of the table, with his 
spectacles over his eyes, for a wonder, instead of on his 
forehead. “ How are you now ? ” 

Solomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards 
the broker, as introducing him. 

“ Is there anything the matter ? ” asked Walter, with 
a catching in his breath. 

“No, no. There’s nothing the matter,” said Mr. 
Brogley. “ Don’t let it put you out of the way.” 

Walter looked from the broker to his uncle in mute 
amazement. 

“ The fact is,” said Mr. Brogley, “ there’s a little pay- 
ment on a bond debt — three hundred and seventy odd, 
overdue : and I’m in possession.” 

“In possession !” cried Walter, looking round at the 
shop. 

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Brogley, in confidential assent, and 
nodding his head as if he would urge the advisability of 
their all being comfortable together. “ It’s an execution. 
That’s what it is. Don’t let it put you out of the way. 
I come myself because of keeping it quiet and sociable. 
You know me. It’s quite private.” 

“ Uncle Sol ! ” faltered Walter. 

“ Wally, my boy,” returned his uncle. “ It’s the first 
time. Such a calamity never happened to me before. 


174 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


I’m an aid man to begin.” Pushing up his spectacles 
again (for they were useless any longer to conceal his 
emotion), he covered his face with his hand, and sobbed 
aloud, and his tears fell down upon his coffee-colored 
waistcoat. 

“ Uncle Sol ! Pray ! oh don’t ! ” exclaimed Walter, 
who really felt a thrill of terror in seeing the old man 
weep. “ For God’s sake don’t do that. Mr. Brogley, 
what shall I do ? ” 

“ I should recommend you looking up a friend or so, M 
said Mr. Brogley, “ and talking it over.” n 

“To be sure!” cried Walter, catching at anything. 
“ Certainly ! Thankee. Captain Cuttle’s the man, un- 
cle. Wait till I run to Captain Cuttle. Keep your eye 
upon my uncle, will you, Mr. Brogley, and make him as 
comfortable as you can while I am gone ? Don’t de- 
spair, Uncle Sol. Try and keep a good heart, there’s a 
dear fellow ! ” 

Saying this with great fervor, and disregarding the 
old man’s broken remonstrances, Walter dashed out of 
the shop again as hard as he could go ; and, having hur- 
ried round to the office to excuse himself on the plea of 
his uncle’s sudden illness, set off, full speed, for Captain 
Cuttle’s residence. 

Everything seemed altered as he ran along the streets 
There was the usual entanglement and noise of carts, 
drays, omnibuses, wagons, and foot-passengers, but the 
misfortune that had fallen on the wooden midshipman 
made it strange and new. Houses and shops were dif- 
ferent from what they used to be, and bore Mr. Brog- 
iey’s warrant on their fronts in large characters. The 
broker seemed to have got hold of the very churches ; 
for their spires rose in*- the sky with an unwonted air. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


175 


Even the sky itself was changed, and had an execution 
in it plainly. 

Captain Cuttle lived on the brink of a little canal neat 
the India Docks, where there was a swivel bridge which 
opened now and then to let some wandering monster of 
a ship come roaming up the street like a stranded levi- 
athan. The gradual change from land to water, on the 
approach to Captain Cuttle’s lodgings, was curious. It 
began with the erection of flag-staffs, as appurtenances 
to public-houses ; then came slop-sellers’ shops, with 
Guernsey shirts, sou’wester hats, and canvas pantaloons, 
at once the tightest and the loosest of their order, hang- 
ing up outside. These were succeeded by anchor and 
chain-cable forges, where sledge-hammers were dinging 
upon iron all day long. Then came rows of houses, 
with little vane-surmounted masts uprearing themselves 
from among the scarlet beans. Then, ditches. Then, 
pollard willows. Then, more ditches. Then, unac- 
countable patches of dirty water, hardly to be descried, 
for the ships that covered them. Then, the air was per- 
fumed with chips ; and all other trades were swallowed 
up in mast, oar, and block-making, and boat-building. 
Then, the ground grew marshy and unsettled. Then, 
there was nothing to be smelt but rum and sugar. 
Then, Captain Cuttle’s lodgings — at once a first floor 
and a top story, in Brig-place — were close before you. 

The captain was one of those timber-looking men, 
suits of oak as well as hearts, whom it is almost impos- 
sible for the liveliest imagination to separate from any 
part of their dress, however insignificant. Accordingly, 
when Walter knocked at the door, and the captain in- 
stantly poked his head out of one of his little front- 
windows, and hailed him, with the hard glazed hat al- 


176 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ready on it, and the shirt-collar like a sail, and the wide 
suit of blue all standing as usual, Walter was as fully 
persuaded that he was always in that state, as if the cap- 
tain had been a bird and those had been his feathers. 

“ Wal’r, my lad ! ” said Captain Cuttle. “ Stand by 
and knock again. Hard ! It’s washing-day.” 

Walter, in his impatience, gave a prodigious tliumj 
with the knocker. 

“ Hard it is ! ” said Captain Cuttle, and immediately 
drew in his head, as if he expected a squall. 

Nor was he mistaken ; for a widow lady, with her 
sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, and her arms frothy 
with soap-suds and smoking with hot water, replied to 
the summons with startling rapidity. Before she looked 
at Walter she looked at the knocker, and then, measur- 
ing him with her eyes from head to foot, said she won- 
dered he had left any of it. 

“ Captain Cuttle’s at home, I know,” said Walter, with 
a conciliatory smile. 

“ Is he ? ” replied the widow lady. “ In-deed ! ” 

“ He has just been speaking to me,” said Walter, in 
breathless explanation. 

“ Has he ? ” replied the widow lady. “ Then p’raps 
you’ll give him Mrs. MacStinger’s respects and say that 
the next time he lowers himself and his lodgings by 
talking out of winder, she’ll thank him to come down 
and open the door too.” Mrs. MacStinger spoke loud, 
and listened for any observations that might be offered 
from the first floor. 

“ I’ll mention it,” said Walter, “ if you’ll have the 
goodness to let me in, ma’am.” 

For he was repelled by a w r ooden fortification extend- 
ing across the door-way, and put there to prevent the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


177 


little MacStingers in their moments of recreation from 
tumbling down the steps. 

u A boy that can knock my door down,” said Mrs. 
MacStinger, contemptuously, “ can get over that, I 
should hope ! ” But Walter, taking this as a permission 
to enter, and getting over it, Mrs. MacStinger imme 
diately demanded whether an Englishwoman’s house 
was her castle or not ; and whether she was to be broke 
in upon by ‘raff.’ On these subjects her thirst for infor- 
mation was still very importunate, when Walter, having 
made his way up the little staircase through an artificial 
fog occasioned by the washing, which covered the balus- 
ters with a clammy perspiration, entered Captain Cuttle’s 
room, and found that gentleman in ambush behind the 
door. 

“ Never owed her a penny, Wal’r,” said Captain Cut- 
tie, in a low voice, and with visible marks of trepidation 
on his countenance. u Done her a world of good turns, 
and the children too. Vixen at times, though. Whew ! ” 
1 should go away, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter. 

“ Dursn’t do it, Wal’r,” returned the captain. “ She’d 
find me out, wherever I went. Sit down. How’s 
Gills ? ” 

The captain was dining (in his hat) off cold loin of 
mutton, porter, and some smoking hot potatoes, which he 
had cooked himself, and took out of a little saucepan be- 
fore the fire as he wanted them. He unscrewed his 
hook at dinner-time, and screwed a knife into its wooden 
socket instead, with which he had already begun to peel 
one of these potatoes for Walter. His rooms were very 
small, and strongly impregnated with tobacco-smoke, but 
snug enough : everything being stowed away, as if 
there were an earthquake regularly every half hour, 
von. i. 12 


178 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ How’s Gills ? ” inquired the captain. 

Walter, who had by this time recovered his breath, 
and lost his spirits — or such temporary spirits as his 
rapid journey had given him — looked at his questioner 
for a moment, said “Oh, Captain Cuttle!” and burst 
into tears. 

No w r ords can describe the captain’s consternation at 
this sight. Mrs. MacStinger faded into nothing before 
it. He dropped the potato and the fork — and would 
have dropped the knife too if he could — and sat gazing 
at the boy, as if he expected to hear next moment that 
a gulf had opened in the city, which had swallowed up 
his old friend, coffee-colored suit, buttons, chronometer, 
spectacles, and all. 

But when Walter told him what was really the mat- 
ter, Captain Cuttle, after a moment’s reflection, started 
up into full activity. He emptied out of a little tin can- 
ister on the top shelf of the cupboard, his whole stock 
of ready money (amounting to thirteen pounds and half 
a crown), which he transferred to one of the pockets of 
his square blue coat ; further enriched that repository 
with the contents of his plate chest, consisting of two 
withered atomies of teaspoons, and an obsolete pair of 
knock-knee’d sugar-tongs ; pulled up his immense double- 
cased silver watch from the depths in which it reposed, 
to assure himself that that valuable was sound and 
whole ; re-attached the hook to his right wrist ; and 
seizing the stick covered over with knobs, bade Walter 
come along. 

Remembering, however, in the midst of his virtuous 
excitement, that Mrs. MacStinger might be lying in 
wait below, Captain Cuttle hesitated at last, not without 
glancing at the window, as if he had some thought of 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


179 


escaping by that unusual means of egress, rather than 
encounter his terrible enemy. He decided, however, in 
favor of stratagem. 

“ Wallr,” said the captain, with a timid wink, “go 
afore, my lad. Sing out, ‘ good-by, Captain Cuttle/ 
when you’re in the passage, and shut the door. Then 
wait at the corner of the street till you see me.” 

These directions were not issued without a previous 
knowledge of the enemy tactics, for when Walter got 
down-stairs, Mrs. MacStinger glided out of the little 
back-kitchen, like an avenging spirit. But not glid- 
ing out upon the captain, as she had expected, she 
merely made a further allusion to the knocker, and 
glided in again. 

Some five minutes elapsed before Captain Cuttle could 
summon courage to attempt his escape ; for Walter 
waited so long at the street-corner, looking back at 
the house, before there were any symptoms of the 
hard glazed hat. At length the captain burst out of 
the door with the suddenness of an explosion, and com- 
ing towards him at a great pace, and never once looking 
over his shoulder, pretended as soon as they were well 
out of the street, to whistle a tune. 

“Uncle much hove down, Wal’r ?” inquired the cap- 
tain, as they were walking along. 

“ I am afraid so. If you had seen him this morning, 
you would never have forgotten it.” 

“ Walk fast, Wal’r, my lad,” returned the captain, 
mending his pace ; “ and walk the same all the days 
of your life. Overhaul the catechism for that advice, 
and keep it ! ” 

The captain was too busy with his own thoughts of 
Solomon Gills, mingled perhaps with some* reflections on 


180 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


his late escape from Mrs. MaeStinger, to offer any fur- 
ther quotations on the way for Walter’s moral improve- 
ment. They interchanged no other word until they ar- 
rived at old Sol’s door, where the unfortunate wooden 
midshipman, with his instrument at his eye, seemed to 
be surveying the whole horizon in search of some friend 
to help him out of his difficulty. 

“ Gills ! ” said the captain, hurrying into the back-par- 
lor, and taking him by the hand quite tenderly. “ Lay 
your head well to the wind, and we’ll fight through it. 
All you’ve got to do,” said the captain, with the solem- 
nity of a man who was delivering himself of one of the 
most precious practical tenets ever discovered by human 
wisdom, 44 is to lay your head well to the wind, and we’ll 
fight through it ! ” 

Old Sol returned the pressure of his hand, and thanked 
him. 

Captain Cuttle, then, with a gravity suitable to the 
nature of the occasion, put down upon the table the two 
tea-spoons and the sugar-tongs, the silver watch, and the 
ready money ; and asked Mr. Brogley, the broker, what 
the damage was. 

44 Come ! What do you make of it ? ” said Captain 
Cuttle. 

“ Why, Lord help you ?” returned the broker ; “ ycu 
don’t suppose that property’s of any use, do you ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” inquired the captain. 

“ Why ? The amount’s three hundred and seventy, 
odd,” replied the broker. 

“Never mind,” returned the captain, though he was 
evidently dismayed by the figures : 44 all’s fish that comes 
to your net, I suppose ? ” 

44 Certainly/’ said Mr. Brogley. 44 But sprats a’n’t 
whales, you know.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


181 


The philosophy of this observation seemed to strike 
the captain. He ruminated for a minute ; eying the 
broker, meanwhile, as a deep genius : and then called 
the instrument-maker aside. 

44 Gills,” said Captain Cuttle, “ what’s the bearings of 
this business ? Who’s the creditor ? ” 

“ Hush ! ” returned the old man. 44 Come away. Don’t 
speak before Wally. It’s a matter of security for Wal- 
ly’s hither — an old bond. I’ve paid a good deal of it, 
Ned, but the times are so bad with me that I can’t do 
more just now. I’ve foreseen it, but I couldn’t help it. 
Not a word before Wally, for all the world.” 

44 You’ve got some money, haven’t you ? ” whispered 
the captain. 

44 Yes, yes — oh yes — I’ve got some,” returned old 
Sol, first putting his hands into his empty pockets, and 
then squeezing his Welsh wig between them, as if he 
thought he might wring some gold out of it ; 44 but I — 
the little I have got, isn’t convertible, Ned ; it can’t be 
got at. I have been trying to do something with it for 
Wally, and I’m old-fashioned, and behind the time. It’s 
here and there, and — and, in short, it’s as good as no- 
where,” said the old man, looking in bewilderment about 
him. 

He had so much the air of a half-witted person who 
had been hiding his money in a variety of places, and 
had forgotten where, that the captain followed his eyes, 
not without a faint hope that he might remember some 
few hundred pounds concealed up the chimney, or down 
in the cellar. But Solomon Gills knew better than that. 

44 I’m behind the time altogether, my d( ar Ned,” said 
Sol, in resigned despair, 44 a long way. It’s no use my 
’agging on so far behind it. The stock had better b'' 


182 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


sold — it’s worth more than this debt — and I had better 
go and die somewhere on the balance. I haven’t any 
energy left. I don’t understand things. This had better 
be the end of it. Let ’em sell the stock and take him 
down,” said the old man, pointing feebly to the wooden 
midshipman, “ and let us both be broken up together ” 

“And what d’ye mean to do with Wal’r?”said the 
captain. “ There, there ! Sit ye down, Gills, sit ye 
down, and let me think o’ this. If I warn’t a man on 
a small annuity, that was large enough till to-day, I 
hadn’t need to think of it. But you only lay your 
head well to the wind,” said the captain, again admin- 
istering that unanswerable piece of consolation, “ and 
you’re all right ! ” 

Old Sol thanked him from his heart, and went and laid 
it against the back-parlor fireplace instead. 

Captain Cuttle walked up and down the shop for some 
time, cogitating profoundly, and bringing his bushy black 
eyebrows to bear so heavily^on his nose, like clouds 
settling on a mountain, that Walter was afraid to offer 
any interruption to the current of his reflections. Mr. 
Brogley, who was averse to being any constraint upon 
the party, and who had an ingenious cast of mind, 
went, softly whistling, among the stock ; rattling weather 
glasses, shaking compasses as if they were physic, catch- 
ing up keys with loadstones, looking through telescopes, 
endeavoring to make himself acquainted with the use of 
the globes, setting parallel rulers astride on to his nose, 
and amusing himself with other philosophical transac- 
tions. 

“ Wal’r ! ” said the captain at last. “ I’ve got it.” 

“ Have you, Captain Cuttle ? ” cried Walter, with 
great animation. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


183 


“ Come this way, my lad,” said the captain. “ The 
stock’s one security. I’m another. Your governor’s the 
man to advance the money.” 

“ Mr. Dombey ! ” faltered Walter. 

The captain nodded gravely. “ Look at him,” he said. 
u Look at Gills. If they was to sell off these things 
now, he’d die of it. You know he would. We mustn’t 
leave a stone unturned — and there’s a stone for you.” 

“ A stone ! — Mr. Dombey ! ” faltered Walter. 

“ You run round to the office, first of all, and see if 
he’s there,” said Captain* Cuttle, clapping him on the 
back. “ Quick ! ” 

Walter felt he must not dispute the command — a 
glance at his uncle would have determined him if he 
had felt otherwise — and disappeared to execute it. He 
soon returned, out of breath, to say that Mr. Dombey 
was not there. It was Saturday, and he had gone to 
Brighton. 

“I tell you what, Wal’r!” said the captain, who seemed 
to have prepared himself for this contingency in his ab- 
sence. “ We’ll go to Brighton. I’ll back you, my boy. 
[’ll back you, Wal’r. We’ll go to Brighton by the after- 
noon’s coach.” 

If the application must be made to Mr. Dombey at all, 
which was awful to think of, Walter felt that he would 
rather prefer it alone and unassisted, than backed by the 
personal influence of Captain Cuttle, to which he hardly 
thought Mr. Dombey would attach much weight. Bu 
as the captain appeared to be of quite another opinion, 
and was bent upon it, and as his friendship was too zeak 
ous and serious to be trifled with by one so much younger 
than himself, he forbore to hint the least objection. Cut- 
tie, therefore, taking a hurried leave of Solomon Gills, 


184 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and returning the ready money, the teaspoons, the sugar- 
tongs, and the silver watch, to his pocket — with a view, 
as Walter thought, with horror, to making a gorgeous 
impression on Mr. Dombey — bore him off to the coach- 
office, without a minute’s delay, and repeatedly assured 
him, on the road that he would stick by him to the last 


DOMBET AND SON. 


185 - 


CHAPTER X. 

CONTAINING THE SEQUEL OF THE MIDSHIPMAN’S DIS- 
ASTER. 

Major Bagstock, after long and frequent observa- 
tion of Paul, across Princess’s-place, through his double 
barrelled opera glass ; and after receiving many minute 
reports, daily, weekly, and monthly, on that subject, 
from the native, who kept himself in constant com- 
munication with Miss Tox’s maid for that purpose ; 
came to the conclusion that Dombey, sir, was a man 
to be known, and that J. B. was the boy to make his 
acquaintance. 

Miss Tox, however, maintaining her reserved beha- 
vior, and frigidly declining to understand the major 
whenever he called (which he often did) on any little 
fishing excursion connected with this project, the major, 
in spite of his constitutional toughness and slyness, was 
fain to leave the accomplishment of his desire in some 
measure to chance, “ which,” as he was used to observe 
with chuckles at his club, “ has been fifty to one in 
favor of Joey B., sir, ever since his elder brother died of 
Yellow Jack in the West Indies.” 

It was some time coming to his aid in the present 
instance, but it befriended him at last. When the dark 
servant, with full particulars, reported Miss Tox absent 
on Brighton service, the major was suddenly touched 


186 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


with affectionate reminiscences of his friend Bill Bither- 
stone of Bengal, who had written to ask him, if he 
ever went that way, to bestow a call upon his only son. 
But when the same dark servant reported Paul at Mrs. 
Pipchin’s, and the major, referring to the letter favored 
by Master Bitherstone on his arrival in England — to 
which he had never had the least idea of paying any 
attention — saw the opening that presented itself, he 
was made so rabid by the gout, with which he hap- 
pened to be then laid up, that he threw a footstool at 
the dark servant in return for his intelligence, and swore 
he would be the death of the rascal before he had done 
with him : which the dark servant was more than half 
disposed to believe. 

At length the major being released from his fit, went 
one Saturday growling down to Brighton, with the na- 
tive behind him : apostrophizing Miss Tox all the way, 
and gloating over the prospect of carrying by storm the 
distinguished friend to whom she attached so much mys- 
tery, and for whom she had deserted him. 

“ Would you, ma’am, would you ! ” said the major, 
straining with vindictiveness, and swelling every already 
swollen vein in his head. “ Would you give Joey B. 
the go-by, ma’am ? Not yet, ma’am, not yet ! Damme, 
not yet, sir. Joe is awake, ma’am. Bagstock is alive, 
sir. J. B. knows a move or two, ma’am. Josh has 
his weather-eye open, sir. You’ll find him tough, 
ma’am. Tough, sir, tough is Joseph. Tough, and de- 
v;l-ish sly ! ” 

And very tough indeed Master Bitherstone found 
him, when he took that young gentleman out for a 
walk. But the major, with his complexion like a Stilton 
cheese, and his eyes like a prawn’s, went roving about, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


187 


perfectly indifferent to Master Bitherstone’s amusement, 
and dragging Master Bitherstone along, while he looked 
about him high and low for Mr. Dombey and his 
children. 

In good time the major, previously instructed by 
Mrs. Pipchin, spied out Paul and Florence, and bore 
down upon them ; there being a stately gentleman (Mr* 
Dombey, doubtless) in their company. Charging with 
Master Bitherstone into the very heart of the little 
squadron, it fell out, of course, that Master Bitherstone 
spoke to his fellow-sufferers. Upon that the major 
stopped to notice and admire them ; remembered with 
amazement that he had seen and spoken to them at 
his friend Miss Tox’s in Princess’s-place ; opined that 
Paul was a devilish fine fellow, and his own little friend; 
inquired if he remembered Joey B. the major ; and 
finally, with a sudden recollection of the conventionali- 
ties of life, turned and apologized to Mr. Dombey. 

“ But my little friend here, sir,” said the major, 
“makes a boy of me again. An old soldier, sir — Major 
Bagstock, at your service — is not ashamed to confess 
it.” Here the major lifted his hat. “ Damme, sir,” cried 
the major with sudden warmth, “ I envy you.” Then 
he recollected himself, and added, “ Excuse my free- 
dom.” 

Mr. Dombey begged he wouldn’t mention it. 

“ An old campaigner, sir,” said the major, “ a smoke- 
dried, sun-burnt, used-up, invalided old dog of a major, 
sir, was not afraid of being condemned for his whim by 
a man like Mr. Dombey. I have the honor of address- 
ing Mr. Dombey, I believe ? ” 

“ I am the present unworthy representative of that 
name, major,” returned Mr. Dombey. 


188 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“By G — , sir,” said the major, “it’s a great name. 
It’s a name, sir,” said the major firmly, as if he defied 
Mr. Dombey to contradict him, and would feel it his 
painful duty to bully him if he did, “ that is known 
and honored in the British possessions abroad. It is a 
name, sir, that a man is proud to recognize. There is 
nothing adulatory in Joseph Bagstock, sir. His Royal 
Highness the Duke of York observed on more than 
one occasion 4 there is no adulation in Joey. He is a 
plain old soldier is Joe. He is tough to a fault is Jo- 
seph : ’ but it’s a great name, sir. By the Lord, it’s a 
great name ! ” said the major, solemnly. 

“ You are good enough to rate it higher than it de- 
serves perhaps, major,” returned Mr. Dombey. 

“ No, sir,” said the major. “ My little friend here, sir, 
will certify for Joseph Bagstock that he is a thorough- 
going, down-right, plain-spoken, old Trump, sir, and 
nothing more. That boy, sir,” said the major in a lower 
tone, “ will live in history. That boy, sir, is not a com- 
mon production. Take care of him, Mr. Dombey.” 

Mr. Dombey seemed to intimate that he would en- 
deavor to do so. 

“ Here is a boy here, sir,” pursued the major, con- 
fidentially, and giving him a thrust with his cane. “ Son 
of Bitherstone of Bengal. Bill Bitherstone formerly of 
ours. That boy’s father and myself, sir, were sworn 
friends. Wherever you went, sir, you heard of nothing 
but Bill Bitherstone and Joe Bagstock. Am I blind to 
that boy’s defects ? By no means. He’s a fool, sir.” 

Mr. Dombey glanced at the libelled Master Bither- 
stone of whom he knew at least as much as the major 
did, and said, in quite a complacent manner, “Really?” 

“ That is what he is, sir,” said the major. “ He’s a 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


189 


fool. Joe Bagstock never minces matters. The son of 
my old friend Bill Bitherstone of Bengal is a bom fool, 
sir.” Here the major laughed till he was almost black. 
“ My little friend is destined for a public school, I pre- 
sume, Mr. Dombey ? ” said the major when lie had re- 
covered. 

“ I am not quite decided,” returned Mr. Dombey. 
“1 think not. He is delicate.” 

“ If he’s delicate, sir,” said the major, “ you are right. 
None but the tough fellows could live through it, sir, 
at Sandhurst. We put each other to the torture there, 
sir. We roasted the new fellows at a slow fire, and 
hung ’em out of a three pair of stairs window, with 
their heads downwards. Joseph Bagstock, sir, was held 
out of the window by the heels of his boots for thirteen 
minutes by the college clock.” 

The major might have appealed to his countenance 
in corroboration of this story. It certainly looked as if 
he had hung out a little too long. 

“But it made us what we were, sir,” said the major, 
settling his shirt-frill. “ We were iron, sir, and it forged 
us. Are you remaining here, Mr. Dombey ? ” 

“I generally come down once a week, major,” re- 
turned that gentleman. “ I stay at the Bedford.” 

“ I shall have the honor of calling at the Bedford, 
sir, if you’ll permit me,” said the major. “ Joey B., sir, 
is not in general a calling man, but Mr. Dombey’s is 
not a common name. I am much indebted to my little 
friend, sir, for the honor of this introduction.” 

Mr. Dombey made a very gracious reply ; and Major 
Bagstock, having patted Paul on the head, and said of 
Florence that her eyes would play the devil with the 
youngsters before long — “and the oldsters too, sir, if 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


*30 

you come to that,” added the major, chuckling very 
much — stirred up Master Bitherstone with his walk- 
ing-stick, and departed with that young gentleman, at 
a kind of half-trot ; rolling his head and coughing with 
great dignity, as he staggered away, with his legs very 
wide asunder. 

In fulfilment of his promise, the major afterwards 
called on Mr. Dombey ; and Mr. Dombey, having re- 
ferred to the army list, afterwards called on the major. 
Then the major called at Mr. Dombey’s house in town ; 
and came down again, in the same coach as Mr. Dom- 
bey. In short, Mr. Dombey and the major got on un- 
commonly well together, and uncommonly fast : and Mr. 
Dombey observed of the major, to his sister, that be- 
sides being quite a military man he was really some- 
thing more, as he had a very admirable idea of the 
importance of things unconnected with his own pro- 
fession. 

At length Mr. Dombey, bringing down Miss Tox and 
Mrs. Chick to see the children, and finding the major 
again at Brighton, invited him to dinner at the Bedford, 
and complimented Miss Tox highly, beforehand, on her 
neighbor and acquaintance. Notwithstanding the palpi- 
tation of the heart which these allusions occasioned her, 
they were anything but disagreeable to Miss Tox, as 
they enabled her to be extremely interesting, and to 
manifest an occasional incoherence and distraction which 
she was not at all unwilling to display. The major gave 
her abundant opportunities of exhibiting this emotion 
being profuse in his complaints, at dinner, of her deser- 
tion of him and Princess*s-place : and as he appeared to 
derive great enjoyment from making them, they all got 
on very well. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


191 


None the worse on account of the majoi taking charge 
of the whole conversation, and showing as great an ap- 
petite in that respect as in regard of the various dainties 
on the table, among which he may be almost said to have 
wallowed: greatly to the aggravation of his inflammatory 
tendencies. Mr. Dombey’s habitual silence and reserve 
yielding readily to this usurpation, the major felt that he 
was coming out and shining : and in the flow of spirits 
thus engendered, rang such an infinite number of new 
changes on his own name that he quite astonished him- 
self. In a word, they were all very well pleased.. The 
major was considered to possess an inexhaustible fund 
of conversation ; and when he took a late farewell, after 
a long rubber, Mr. Dombey again complimented the 
blushing Miss Tox on her neighbor and acquaintance. 

But all the way home to his own hotel, the major 
incessantly said to himself, and of himself, “ Sly, sir — 
sly, sir — de-vil-ish sly ! ” And when he got there, sat 
down in a chair, and fell into a silent fit of laughter, with 
which he was sometimes seized, and which was always 
particularly awful. It held him so long on this occasion 
that the dark servant, who stood watching him at a 
distance, but dared not for his life approach, twice or 
thrice gave him over for lost.. His whole form, but 
especially his face and head, dilated beyond all former 
experience ; and presented to the dark man’s view, noth- 
ing but a heaving mass of indigo. At length he burst 
into a violent paroxysm of coughing, and when that was 
a little better burst into such ejaculations as the follow- 
ing : — 

“ Would you, ma’am, would you ? Mrs. Dombey, eh, 
ma'am? I think not, ma’am. Not while Joe B. can 
put a spoke in your wheel, ma’am. J. B.’s even with 


192 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


you now, ma’am. He isn’t altogether bowled out, yet, 
sir, isn’t Bagstock. She’s deep, sir, deep, but Josh is 
deeper. Wide awake is old Joe — broad awake, and 
staring sir ! ” There was no doubt of this last assertion 
being true, and to a very fearful extent ; as it continued 
to be during the greater part of that night, which the 
major chiefly passed in similar exclamations, diversified 
with fits of coughing and choking that startled the whole 
house. 

It was on the day after this occasion (being Sunday) 
when, as Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Chick, and Miss Tox were 
sitting at breakfast, still eulogizing the major, Florence 
came running in : her face suffused with a bright color, 
and her eyes sparkling joyfully : and cried, — 

“Papa! Papa! Here’s Walter ! and he won’t come 
in.” 

“ Who ? ” cried Mr. Dombey. “ What does she 
mean ? What is this ? ” 

“Walter, papa,” said Florence timidly; sensible of 
having approached the presence with too much familiar- 
ity. “ Who found me when I was lost.” 

“ Does she mean young Gay, Louisa ? ” inquired Mr. 
Dombey, knitting his brows. “ Really, this child’s man- 
ners have become very boisterous. She cannot mean 
young Gay, I think. See what it is, will you.” 

Mrs. Chick hurried into the passage, and returned 
with the information that it was young Gay, accom- 
panied by a very strange-looking person ; and that 
young Gay said he would not take the liberty of com- 
ing in, hearing Mr. Dombey was at breakfast, but would 
wait until Mr. Dombey should signify that he might ap- 
proach. 

“Tell the boy to come in now,” said Mr. Dombey. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


193 


'* Now, Gay, what is the matter ? Who sent you down 
here ? Was there nobody else to come ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” returned Walter. “ I have 
not been sent. I have been so bold as to come on my 
own account, which I hope you’ll pardon when I men-, 
tion the cause.” 

But Mr. Dombey, without attending to what he said, 
was looking impatiently on either side of him (as if he 
were a pillar in his way) at some object behind. 

“ What’s that ? ” said Mr. Dombey. “ Who is that ? 
I think you have made some mistake in the door, 
sir.” 

“Oh, I’m very sorry to intrude with any one, sir,” 
cried Walter, hastily; “but this is — this is Captain 
Cuttle, sir.” 

“ Wal’r, my lad,” observed the captain in a deep 
voice : “ stand by ! ” 

At the same time the captain coming a little further 
in, brought out his wide suit of blue, his conspicuous 
shirt-collar, and his knobby nose in full relief, and stood 
bowing to Mr. Dombey, and waving his hook politely to 
the ladies, with the hard glazed hat in his one hand, and 
a red equator round his head which it had newly im- 
printed there. 

Mr. Dombey regarded this phenomenon with amaze- 
ment and indignation, and seemed by his looks to appeal 
to Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox against it. Little Paul, 
who had come in after Florence, backed towards Miss 
Tox as the captain waved his hook, and stood on the 
defensive. 

“ Now, Gay,” said Mr. Dombey. “ What have you 
got to say to me?” 

Again the captain observed, as a general opening of 

VOL. i. 13 


194 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the conversation that could not fail to propitiate all par- 
ties, “ Wal’r, stand by ! ” 

“I am afraid, sir,” began Walter, trembling, and look- 
ing down at the ground, “ that I take a very great liberty 
incoming — indeed, I am sure I do. I should hardly 
have had the courage to ask to see you, sir, even after 
coming down, I am afraid, if I had not overtaken Miss 
Dombey ” — 

“Well!” said Mr. Dombey, following his eyes as he 
glanced at the attentive Florence, and frowning uncon- 
sciously as she encouraged him with a smile. “ Go on, 
if you please.” 

“ Ay, ay,” observed the captain, considering it incum- 
bent on him, as a point of good breeding, to support Mr. 
Dombey. “ Well said ! Go on, Wal’r.” 

Captain Cuttle ought to have been withered by the 
look which Mr. Dombey bestowed upon him in acknowl- 
edgment of his patronage. But quite innocent of this, 
he closed one eye in reply, and gave Mr. Dombey to 
understand, by certain significant motions of his hook, 
that Walter was a little bashful at first, and might be 
expected to come out shortly. 

“ It is entirely a private and personal matter that has 
brought me here, sir,” continued Walter, faltering, “ and 
Captain Cuttle” — 

“ Here ! ” interposed the captain, as an assurance that 
he was at hand, and might be relied upon. 

“ Who is a very old friend of my poor uncle’s, and a 
most excellent man, sir,” pursued Walter, raising his 
eyes with a look of entreaty in the captain’s behalf, 
“ was so good as to offer to come with me, which I could 
hardly refuse.” 

“ No, no, no,” observed the captain complacently. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


19o 


Of course not. No call for refusing. Go on, 
Wal’r.” 

“ And therefore, sir,” said Walter, venturing to meet 
Mr. Dombey’s eye, and proceeding with better courage 
in the very desperation of the case, now that there was 
no avoiding it, “ therefore I have come with him, sir, to 
say that my poor old uncle is in very great affliction and 
distress. That through the gradual loss of his business, 
and not being able to make a payment, the apprehension 
of which has weighed very heavily upon his mind, 
months and months, as indeed I know, sir, he has an 
execution in his house, and is in danger of losing all he 
has, and breaking his heart. And that if you would, in 
your kindness, and in your old knowledge of him as a 
respectable man, do anything to help him out of his diffi- 
culty, sir, we never could thank you enough for it.” 

Walter’s eyes filled with tears as he spoke ; and so 
did those of Florence. Her father saw them glistening, 
though he appeared to look at Walter only. 

“It is a very large sum, sir,” said Walter. “More 
than three hundred pounds. My uncle is quite beaten 
down by his misfortune, it lies so heavy on him ; and is 
quite unable to do anything for his own relief. He 
doesn’t even know yet that I have come to speak to you. 
You would wish me to say, sir,” added Walter, after a 
moment’s hesitation, “exactly what it is I want. I really 
don’t know, sir. There is my uncle’s stock, on which I 
believe I may say, confidently, there are no other de- 
mands, and there is Captain Cuttle, who would wish to 
be security too. I — I hardly like to mention, said 
Walter, “ such earnings as mine ; but if you would allow 
them — accumulate — payment — advance — uncle — 
frugal, honorable old man.” Walter trailed off* through 


190 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


these broken sentences, into silence; and stood, with 
downcast head, before his employer. 

Considering this a favorable moment for the display 
of the valuables, Captain Cuttle advanced to the table ; 
and clearing a space among the breakfast-cups at Mr. 
Pombey’s elbow, produced the silver watch, the ready 
money, the teaspoons, and the sugar-tongs ; and piling 
them up in a heap that they might look as precious as 
possible, delivered himself of these words : — 

“ Half a loaf’s better than no bread, and the same re- 
mark holds good with crumbs. There’s a few. Annuity 
of one hundred pound prannum also ready to be made 
over. If there is a man chock full of science in the 
world, it’s old Sol Gills. If there is a lad of promise — 
one flowing,” added the captain, in one of his happy 
quotations, “ with milk and honey — it’s his nevy ! ” 

The captain then withdrew to his former place, where, 
he stood arranging his scattered locks with the air of a 
man who had given the finishing touch to a difficult per- 
formance. 

When Walter ceased to speak, Mr. Pombey’s eyes 
were attracted to little Paul, who, seeing his sister hang- 
ing down her head and silently weeping in her commis- 
eration for the distress she had heard described, went 
0V3r to her, and tried to comfort her: looking at Walter 
and his father, as he did so, with a very expressive face. 
After the momentary distraction of Captain Cuttle’s ad 
dress, which he regarded with lofty indifference, Mr. 
Pombey again turned his eyes upon his son, and sat 
steadily regarding the child, for some moments, in si- 
lence. 

“ What was this debt contracted for ? ” asked Mr. 
Pombey, at length. “Who is the creditor?” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


197 


“ He don’t know,” replied the captain, putting his 
hand on Walter’s shoulder. “ I do. It came of helping 
a man that’s dead now, and that’s cost my friend Gills 
many a hundred pound already. More particulars in 
private, if agreeable.” 

“ People who have enough to do to hold their own 
way,” said Mr. Dombey, unobservant of the captain’s 
mysterious signs behind Walter, and still looking at his 
6on, u had better be content with their own obligations 
and difficulties, and not increase them by engaging for 
other men. It is an act of dishonesty, and presumption 
too,” said Mr. Dombey, sternly ; “ great presumption ; 
for the wealthy could do no more. Paul, come here ! ” 

The child obeyed : and Mr. Dombey took him on his 
knee. 

“ If you had money now ” — said Mr. Dombey., 
“ Look at me ! ” 

Paul, whose eyes had wandered to his sister* and to 
Walter, looked his father in the face. 

“ If you had money now,” said Mr. Dombey ; “ as 
much money as young Gay has talked about ; what 
would you do?” 

“ Give it to his old uncle,” returned Paul. 

“ Lend it to his old uncle, eh ? ” retorted Mr* Dombey. 

Well ! When you are old enough, you know, you will 
share my money, and we shall use it together.” 

“ Dombey and Son,” interrupted Paul, who had been 
tutored early in the phrase. 

“ Dombey and Son,” repeated his father. “ Would 
you like to begin to be Dombey and Son, now, and lend 
ibis money to young Gay’s uncle ? ” 

“ Oh ! if you please, papa ! ” said Paul ; “ and so 
would Florence.” 


198 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Girls,” said Mr. Dombey, “ have nothing to do with 
Dombey and Son. Would you like it ? ” 

“ Yes, papa, yes ! ” 

“ Then you shall do it,” returned his father. “And 
you see, Paul,” he added, dropping his voice, “ how pow- 
erful money is, and how anxious people are to get it. 
Young Gay comes all this way to beg for money, and 
you, who are so grand and great, having got it, are going 
to let him have it, as a great favor and obligation.” 

Paul turned up the old face for a moment, in which 
there was a sharp understanding of the reference con- 
veyed in these words ; but it was a young and childish 
face immediately afterwards, when he slipped down from 
his father’s knee, and ran to tell Florence not to cry any 
more, for he was going to let young Gay have the 
money. 

Mr. Dombey then turned to a side-table, and wrote a 
note and sealed it. During the interval, Paul and Flor- 
ence whispered to Walter, and Captain Cuttle beamed 
on the three, with such aspiring and ineffably presump- 
tuous thoughts as Mr. Dombey never could have be- 
lieved in. The note being finished, Mr. Dombey turned 
round to his former place, and held it out to Walter. 

“ Give that,” he said, “ the first thing to-morrow morn- 
ing, to Mr. Carker. He will immediately take care that 
one of my people releases your uncle from his present 
position, by paying the amount at issue ; and that such 
arrangements are made for its repayment as may be con- 
sistent with your uncle’s circumstances. You will con- 
sider that this is done for you by Master Paul.” 

Walter, in the emotion of holding - in his hand the 
means of releasing his good uncle from his trouble, 
would have endeavored to express something of his 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


199 


gratitude and joy. But Mr. Dombey stopped liim 
short. 

“You will consider that it is done,” he repeated, “ by 
Master Paul. I have explained that to him, and he un- 
derstands it. I wish no more to be said.” 

As he motioned towards the door, Walter could only 
bow his head and retire. Miss Tox, seeing that the cap- 
tain appeared about to do the same, interposed. 

“ My dear sir,” she said, addressing Mr. Dombey, at 
whose munificence both she and Mrs. Chick were shed- 
ding tears copiously ; “ I think you have overlooked 
something. Pardon me, Mr. Dombey, I think, in the 
nobility of your character, and its exalted scope, you. 
have omitted a matter of detail.” 

“ Indeed, Miss Tox ! ” said Mr. Dombey. 

“'The gentleman with the Instrument,” pursued 

Miss Tox, glancing at Captain Cuttle, “ has left upon 
the table, at your elbow ” — 

“ Good Heaven ! ” said Mr. Dombey, sweeping the 
captain’s property from him, as if it were so much 
crumb indeed. “ Take these things away. I am obliged 
to you, Miss Tox ; it is like your usual discretion. 
Have the goodness to take these things away, sir!” 

Captain Cuttle felt he had no alternative but to com- 
ply. But he was so much struck by the magnanimity 
of Mr. Dombey, in refusing treasures tying heaped up 
to his hand, that when he had deposited the teaspoons 
and sugar-tongs in one pocket, and the ready money in 
another, and had lowered the great watch down slowly 
’ll to its proper vault, he could not refrain from seizing 
that gentleman’s right hand in his own solitary left, and 
while he held it open with his powerful fingers, bringing 
the hook down upon its palm in a transport of admi- 


200 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ration. At this touch of warm feeling and cold iron^ 
Mr. Dombey shivered all over. 

Captain Cuttle then kissed his hook to the ladies sev- 
eral times, with great elegance and gallantry ; and hav- 
ing taken a particular leave of Paul and Florence, ac- 
companied Walter out of the room. Florence was run- 
ning after them in the earnestness of her heart, to send 
some message to old Sol, when Mr. Dombey called her 
back, and bade her stay where she was. 

“ Will you never be a Dombey, my dear child ! ” said 
Mrs. Chick with pathetic reproachfulness. 

“ Dear aunt,” said Florence. “ Don’t be angry with 
me. I am so thankful to Papa ! ” 

She would have run and thrown her arms about his 
neck if she had dared; but as she did not dare, she 
glanced with thankful eyes towards him, as he sat mus- 
ing ; sometimes bestowing an uneasy glance on her, but 
for the most part, watching Paul, who walked about the 
room with the new-blown dignity of having let young 
Gay have the money. 

And young Gay — Walter — what of him ? 

He was overjoyed to purge the old man’s hearth from 
bailiffs and brokers, and to hurry back to his uncle with 
the good tidings. He was overjoyed to have it all ar- 
ranged and settled next day before noon ; and to sit 
down at evening in the little back parlor with old Sol 
and Captain Cuttle ; and to see the Instrument-maker 
already reviving, and hopeful for the future, and feeling 
that the wooden midshipman was his own again. But 
without the least impeachment of his gratitude to Mr. 
Dombey, it must be confessed that Walter was humbled 
and cast down. It is when our budding hopes are nipped 
beyond recovery by some rough wind, that we are the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


20 ] 


most disposed to picture to ourselves what flowers they 
might have borne, if they had flourished ; and now, 
when Walter felt himself cut off* from that great Dombey 
height, by the depth of a new and terrible tumble, and 
felt that all his old wild fancies had been scattered to the 
winds in the fall, he began to suspect that they might 
have led him on to harmless visions of aspiring to Flor- 
ence in the remote distance of time. 

The captain viewed the subject in quite a different 
light. He appeared to entertain a belief that the inter- 
view at which he had assisted was so very satisfactory 
and encouraging, as to be only a step or two removed 
from a regular betrothal of Florence to Walter; and 
that the late transaction had immensely forwarded, if 
not thoroughly established, the Whittingtonian hopes. 
Stimulated by this conviction, and by the improvement 
in the spirits of his old friend, and by his own conse- 
quent gayety, he even attempted, in favoring them with 
the ballad of “ Lovely Peg M for the third time in one 
evening, to make an extemporaneous substitution of the 
name “ Florence but finding this difficult, on account 
of the word Peg invariably rhyming to leg (in which 
personal beauty the original was described as having 
excelled all competitors), lie hit upon the happy thought 
of changing it to Fie — e — eg ; which he accordingly did, 
with an archness almost supernatural, and a voice quite 
vociferous, notwithstanding that the time was close at 
hand when he must seek the abode of the dreadful Mrs. 
MacStinger. 


202 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Paul’s introduction to a new scene. 

Mrs. PipeniN’s constitution was made of such hard 
metal, in spite of its liability to the fleshly .weaknesses 
of standing in need of repose after chops, and of requir- 
ing to be coaxed to sleep by the soporific agency of 
sweetbreads, that it utterly set at nought the predictions 
of Mrs. Wickam, and showed no symptoms of decline. 
Yet, as Paul’s rapt interest in the old lady continued 
unabated, Mrs. Wickam would not budge an inch from 
the position she had taken up. Fortifying and entrench- 
ing herself on the strong, ground of her uncle’s Betsey 
Jane, she advised Miss Berry, as a friend, to prepare 
herself for the worst ; and forewarned her that her aunt 
might, at any time, be expected to go off suddenly, like 
a powder-mill. 

Poor Berry took it all in good part, and drudged and 
slaved away as usual ; perfectly convinced that Mrs. 
Pipchin was one of the most meritorious persons in the 
world, and making every day innumerable sacrifices of 
herself upon the altar of that noble old woman. But 
all these immolations of Berry were somehow carried to 
the credit of Mrs. Pipchin, by Mrs. Pipchin’s friends and 
admirers ; and were made to harmonize with, and carry 
out, that melancholy fact of the deceased Mr. Pipchin 
having broken his heart in the Peruvian mines 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


203 


For example, there was an honest grocer and general 
dealer in the retail line of business, between whom and 
Mrs. Pipchin there was a small memorandum book, with 
a greasy red cover, perpetually in question, and concern- 
ing which divers secret councils and conferences were 
continually being held between the parties to the regis- 
ter, on the mat in the passage, and with closed doors in 
the parlor. Nor were there wanting dark hints from 
Master Bitherstone (whose temper had been made re- 
vengeful by the solar heats of India acting on his blood), 
of balances unsettled, and of a failure, on one occasion 
within his memory, in the supply of moist sugar at tea- 
time. This grocer being a bachelor and not a man who 
looked upon the surface for beauty, had once made hon- 
orable offers for the hand of Berry, which Mrs. Pipchin 
had, with contumely and scorn, rejected. Everybody 
said how laudable this was in Mrs. Pipchin, relict of a 
man who had died of the Peruvian mines ; and what 
a stanch, high, independent spirit, the old lady had. 
But nobody said anything about poor Berry, who cried 
for six weeks (being soundly rated by her good aunt all 
the time), and lapsed into a state of hopeless spinster- 
hood. 

“Berry’s very fond of you, a’n’t she ? ” Paul once 
asked Mrs. Pipchin when they were sitting by the fire 
with the cat. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Pipchin. 

“ Why ? ” asked Paul. 

“ Why ! ” returned the disconcerted old lady. “ How 
can you ask such things, sir! why are you fond of your 
sister Florence ? ” 

“ Because she’s very good,” said Paul. “ There’s no- 
body like Florence.” 


204 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Well ! ” retorted Mrs. Pipchin, shortly, “ and there’s 
nobody like me, I suppose.” 

“ AVt there really though ? ” asked Paul, leaning for* 
ward in his chair, and looking at her very hard. 

“ No,” said the old lady. 

“ I am glad of that,” observed Paul, rubbing his hands 
thoughtfully. “ That’s a very good thing.” 

Mrs. Pipchin didn’t dare to ask him why, lest she 
should receive some perfectly annihilating answer. But 
as a compensation to her wounded feelings, she harassed 
Master Bitherstone to that extent until bedtime, that he 
began that very night to make arrangements for an over- 
land return to India, by secreting from his supper a 
quarter of a round of bread and a fragment of moist 
Dutch cheese, as the beginning of a stock of provision 
to support him on the voyage. 

Mrs. Pipchin had kept watch and ward over little 
Paul and his sister for nearly twelve months. They 
had been home twice, but only for a few days ; and had 
been constant in their weekly visits to Mr. Dombey at 
the hotel. By little and little Paul had grown stronger, 
and had become able to dispense with his carriage ; 
though he still looked thin and delicate ; and still re- 
mained the same old, quiet, dreamy child, that he had 
been when first consigned to Mrs. Pipchin’s care. One 
Saturday afternoon, at dusk, great consternation was oc- 
casioned in the castle by the unlooked-for announcement 
of Mr. Dombey as a visitor to Mrs. Pipchin. The pop 
illation of the parlor was immediately swept up-stairs as 
on the wings of a whirlwind, and after much slamming 
of bedroom doors, and trampling overhead, and some 
knocking about of Master Bitherstone by Mrs. Pipchin, 
as a relief to the perturbation of her spirits, the black 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


205 


bombazine garments of the worthy oKl lady darkened 
the audience-chamber where Mr. Dombey was contem- 
plating the vacant arm-chair of his son and heir. 

“ Mrs. Pipchin,” said, Mr. Dombey, “ how do you 
do?” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Pipchin, “ I am pretty 
well, considering.” 

Mrs. Pipchin always used that form of words. It 
meant, considering her virtues,, sacrifices, and so forth. 

“ I can’t expect, sir, to be very well,” said Mrs. 
Pipchin, taking a chair, and fetching her breath ; “ but 
such health as I have, I am grateful for.” 

Mr. Dombey inclined his head with: the satisfied air 
of a patron, who felt that this was the sort of thing for 
which he paid so much a quarter. After a moment’s 
silence he went on to say: — 

“ Mrs. Pipchin, I have taken the liberty of calling, to 
consult you in reference to my son. I have had it in 
my mind to do so for some time past; but have deferred 
it from time to time, in order that his health might be 
thoroughly reestablished. You have no misgivings on 
that subject, Mrs. Pipchin ? ” 

“ Brighton has proved very beneficial, sir,” returned 
Mrs. Pipchin. “ Very beneficial, indeed.” 

“ 1 purpose,” said Mr. Dombey, “ his remaining at 
Brighton.” 

Mrs. Pipchin rubbed her hands, and bent her gray 
eyes on the fire* 

“ But,” pursued Mr. Dombey, stretching out his fore- 
finger, “ but possibly that he should now make a change, 
and lead a different kind of life here. In short, Mrs. 
Pipchin, that is the object of my visit. My son is get- 
ting on, Mrs. Pipchin. Really, he is getting on.” 


206 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


There was something melancholy in the triumphant 
air with which Mr. Dombey said this. It showed how 
long Paul’s childish life had been to him, and how his 
hopes were set upon a later stage of his existence. Pity 
may appear a strange word to connect with any one so 
haughty and so cold, and yet he seemed a worthy subject 
for it at that moment. 

“ Six years old ! ” said Mr. Dombey, settling his neck- 
cloth — perhaps to hide an irrepressible smile that rather 
seemed to strike upon the surface of his face and glance 
away, as finding no resting place, than to play there for 
an instant. “Dear me, six will be changed to sixteen, 
before we have time to look about us.” 

“ Ten years,” croaked the unsympathetic Pipchin, with 
a frosty glistening of her hard gray eye, and a dreary 
shaking of her bent head, “ is a long time.” 

“ It depends on circumstances,” returned Mr. Dom- 
bey; “at all events, Mrs. Pipchin, my son is six years 
old, and there is no doubt, I fear, that in his studies he 
is behind many children of his age — or his youth,” said 
Mr. Dombey, quickly answering what he mistrusted was 
a shrewd twinkle of the frosty eye, “his youth is a more 
appropriate expression. Now, Mrs. Pipchin, instead of 
being behind his peers, my son ought to be before them; 
far before them: There is an eminence ready for him to 
mount upon. There is nothing of chance or doubt in the 
course before my son. His way in life was clear and 
prepared, and marked out, before he existed. The edu- 
cation of such a young gentleman must not be delayed. 
It must not be left imperfect. It must be very steadily 
and seriously undertaken, Mrs. Pipchin.” 

“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Pipchin, “I can say nothing to 
the contrary.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


207 


“ I was quite sure, Mrs. Pipchin,” returned Mr. Dom- 
bey, approvingly, “ that a person of your good sense 
could not, and would not.” 

f‘ There is a great deal of nonsense — and worse — 
talked about young people not being pressed too hard at 
first, and being tempted on, and all the rest of it, sir,” 
said Mrs. Pipchin, impatiently rubbing her hooked nose, 
“ It never was thought of in my time, and it has no busi- 
ness to be thought of now. My opinion is ‘ keep ’em at 
it.’” 

“ My good madam,” returned Mr. Dombey, “ you have 
not acquired your reputation undeservedly ; and I beg 
you to believe, Mrs. Pipchin, that I am more than satis- 
fied with your excellent system of management, and shall 
have the greatest pleasure in commending it whenever 
my poor commendation” — Mr. Dombey’s loftiness when 
he affected to disparage his own importance, passed all 
bounds — “can be of any service. I have been think- 
ing of Doctor Blimber’s, Mrs. Pipchin.” 

“My neighbor, sir ?” said Mrs. Pipchin, “I believe 
the doctor’s is an excellent establishment. I’ve heard 
that it’s very strictly conducted, and that there’s noth- 
ing but learning going on from morning to night.” 

“ And it’s very expensive,” added Mr. Dombey. 

“ And it’s very expensive, sir,” returned Mrs. Pipchin, 
catching at the fact, as if in omitting that she had omitted 
one of its leading merits. 

“I have had some communication with the doctor, 
Mrs Pipchin,” said Mr. Dombey, hitching his chair anx- 
iously a little nearer to the fire, “and he does not con- 
sider Paul at all too young for his purpose. He men- 
tioned several instances of boys in Greek at about the 
same age. If I have any Tittle uneasiness in my own 


208 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


mind, Mrs. Pipchin, on the subject of this change, it i3 
not on that head. My son not having known a mother 
has gradually concentrated much — too much — of his 
childish affection on his sister. Whether their separa- 
tion ” — - Mr. Dombey said no more, but sat silent. 

“ Hoity-toity ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Pipchin, shaking out 
her black bombazine skirts, and plucking up all the 
ogress within her. “ If she don’t like it, Mr. Dombey, 
site must be taught to lump it.” The good lady apolo- 
gized immediately afterwards for using so common 
figure of speech, but said (and truly) that that was the 
way she reasoned with ’em. 

Mr. Dombey waited until Mrs. Pipchin had done 
bridling and shaking her head, and frowning down a 
legion of Bitherstones and Pankeys ; and then said 
quietly, but correctively, * He, my good madam, he.” 

Mrs. Pipchin’s system would have applied very much 
the same mode of cure to any uneasiness on the part of 
Paul, too ; but as the hard gray eye was sharp enough 
to see that the recipe, however Mr. Dombey might ad- 
mit its efficacy in the case of the daughter, was not a 
sovereign Temedy for the son, she argued the point ; and 
contended that change, and new society, and the differ- 
ent form of life he would lead at Doctor Blimber’s, and 
the studies he would have to master, would very soon 
prove sufficient alienations. As this chimed in with Mr. 
Dombey’s own hope and belief, it gave that gentleman a 
still higher opinion of Mrs. Pipchin’s understanding; 
and as Mrs. Pipchin, at the same time, bewailed the 
loss of her dear little friend (which was not an over- 
whelming shock to her, as she had long expected it, and 
had not looked, in the beginning, for his remaining with 
her longer than three months), he formed an equally 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


209 


good opinion of Mrs. Pipchin’s disinterestedness. It was 
plain that he had given the subject anxious considera- 
tion, for he had formed a plan, which he announced to 
the ogress, of sending Paul to the doctor’s as a weekly 
boarder for the first half year, during which time Flor- 
ence would remain at the castle, that she might receiv 
ner brother there, on Saturdays. This would wean him 
by degrees, Mr. Dombey said : probably with a recollec- 
tion of his not having been weaned by degrees on a 
former occasion. 

Mr. Dombey finished the interview by expressing his 
hope that Mrs. Pipchin would still remain in office as 
general superintendent and overseer of his son, pending 
his studies at Brighton; and having kissed Paul, and 
shaken hands with Florence, and beheld Master Bither- 
stone in his collar of state, and made Miss Pankey cry 
by patting her on the head (in which region she was un- 
commonly tender, on account of a habit Mrs. Pipchin 
had of sounding it with her knuckles, like a cask), he 
withdrew to his hotel and dinner; resolved that Paul, 
now that he was getting so old and well, should begin a 
vigorous course of education forthwith, to qualify him 
for the position in which he was to shine ; and that 
Doctor Blimber should take him in hand immediately. 

Whenever a young gentleman was taken in hand by 
Doctor Blimber, he might consider himself sure of a 
pretty tight squeeze. The doctor only undertook the 
charge of ten young gentlemen, but he had, always 
ready, a supply of learning for a hundred, on the lowest 
estimate ; and it was at once the business arid delight of 
nis life to gorge the unhappy ten with it. 

In fact, Doctor Blimber’s establishment was a great 
hot-house, in which there was a forcing apparatus inces- 
VOL. I. 14 


210 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


santly at work. All tlie boys blew before their time. 
Mental green-peas were produced at Christmas, and in- 
tellectual asparagus all the year round. Mathematical 
gooseberries (very sour ones too) were common at un- 
timely seasons, and from mere sprouts of bushes, under 
Doctor Blimber’s cultivation. Every description of 
Greek and Latin Vegetable was got off the driest 
twigs of boys, under the frostiest circumstances. Na- 
ture was of no consequence at all. No matter what a 
young gentleman was intended to bear, Doctor Blimber 
made him bear to pattern, somehow or other. 

This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the sys- 
tem of forcing was attended with its usual disadvantages. 
There was not the right taste about the premature pro- 
ductions, and they didn’t keep well. Moreover, one 
young gentleman, with a swollen nose and an exces- 
sively large head (the oldest of the ten who had “ gone 
through” everything), suddenly left off blowing one day, 
and remained in the establishment a mere stalk. And 
people did say that the doctor had rather overdone it 
with young Toots, and that when he began to have 
whiskers he left off having brains. 

There young Toots was, at any rate ; possessed of the 
gruffest of voices and the shrillest of minds ; sticking 
ornamental pins into his shirt, and keeping a ring in his 
waistcoat pocket to put on his little finger by stealth, 
when the pupils went out walking ; constantly falling in 
love by sight with nursery-maids, who had no idea of his 
existence ; and looking at the gasdighted world over the 
little iron bars in the left hand corner window of the 
front three pairs of stairs, after bedtime, like a greatly 
overgrown cherub who had sat up aloft much too long. 

The doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


211 


with strings at his knees, and stockings below them. He 
had a bald head, highly polished ; a deep voice ; and a 
chin so very double, that it was a wonder how he ever 
managed to shave irito the creases. He had likewise a pair 
of little eyes that were always half-shut up, and a mouth 
that was always half expanded into a grin, as if lie had, 
that moment, posed a boy, and were waiting to convict 
him from his own lips. Insomuch, that when the doctor 
put his right hand into the breast of his coat, and with 
his other hand behind him, and a scarcely perceptible- 
wag of his head, made the commonest observation to 
a nervous stranger, it was like a sentiment from the 
sphinx, and settled his business. 

The doctor’s was a mighty fine house, fronting the sea. 
Not a joyful style of house within, but quite the con- 
trary. Sad-colored curtains, whose proportions were 
spare and lean, hid themselves despondently behind the 
windows. The tables and chairs were put away in rows, 
like figures in a sum : fires were so rarely lighted in the 
rooms of ceremony, that they felt Tike wells, and a visitor 
represented the bucket ; the dining-room seemed the last 
place in the world where any eating or drinking was 
likely to occur ; there was no sound through all the 
house but the ticking of a great clock in the hall, 
which made itself audible in the very garrets; and 
sometimes a dull crying of young gentlemen at their 
lessons, like the murmurings of an assemblage of mel- 
ancholy pigeons. 

Miss Blimber, too, although a slim and graceful maid, 
did no soft violence to the gravity of the house. There 
was no light nonsense about Miss Blimber. She kept 
ner hair short and crisp, and wore spectacles. She was 
dry and sandy with working in the graves of deceased 


212 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


languages. None of } r our live languages for Miss Blim 
ber. They must be dead — stone dead — and then Miss 
Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul. 

Mrs. Blimber, her mamma, was not learned herself, 
but she pretended to be, and that did quite as well. She 
said at evening parties, that if she could have known 
Cicero, she thought she could have died contented. It 
was the steady joy of her life to see the doctor’s young 
gentlemen go out walking, unlike all other young gen- 
tlemen, in the largest possible shirt-collars and the stiflfest 
possible cravats. It was so classical, she said. 

As to Mr. Feeder, B. A., Doctor Blimber’s assistant, 
he was a kind of human barrel-organ, with a little list 
of tunes at which he was continually working, over and 
over again, without any variation. He might have been 
fitted up with a change of barrels, perhaps, in early life, 
if his destiny had been favorable ; but it had not been ; 
and he had only one, with which, in a monotonous round, 
it was his occupation to bewilder the young ideas of 
Doctor Blimber’s young gentlemen. The young gentle- 
men were prematurely full of carking anxieties. They 
knew no rest from the pursuit of stony-hearted verbs, 
savage noun-substantives, inflexible syntactic passages, 
and ghosts of exercises that appeared to them in their 
dreams. Under the forcing system, a young gentleman 
usually took leave of his spirits in three weeks. He 
had all the cares of the world on his head in three 
months. He conceived bitter sentiments against his par- 
ents or guardians in four ; he was an old misanthrope, 
in five ; envied Curtius that blessed refuge in the earth, 
in six ; and at the end of the first twelvemonth had 
arrived at the conclusion, from which he never after- 
wards departed, that all the fancies of the poets, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


213 


lessons of the sages, were a mere collection of words 
and grammar, and had no other meaning in the world. 

But he went bn, blow, blow, blowing, in the Doctor’s 
hot-house, all the time ; and the doctor’s glory and rep- 
utation were great, when he took his w intry growth home 
to his relations and friends. 

Upon the doctor’s door-steps one day, Paul stood with 
a fluttering heart, and with his small right hand in his 
father’s. His other hand was locked in that of Florence. 
How tight the tiny pressure of that one ; and how loose 
and cold the other! 

Mrs. Pipchin hovered behind the victim, with her sa- 
ble plumage and her hooked beak, like a bird of ill-omen. 
She was out of breath • — for Mr. Dombey, full of great 
thoughts, had w r alked fast — and she croaked hoarsely as 
she waited for the opening of the door. 

“ Now', Paul,” said Mr. Dombey exultingly. “ This is 
the w'ay indeed to be Dombey and Son, and have money. 
You are almost a man already.” 

“ Almost,” returned the child. 

Even his childish agitation could not master the sly 
and quaint yet touching look, with which he accompanied 
-the reply. 

It brought a vague expression of dissatisfaction into 
Mr. Dombey’s face ; but the door being opened, it wa9 
quickly gone. 

“ Doctor Blimber is at home, I believe ? ” said Mr 
Dombey. 

The man said yes ; and as they passed in, looked at 
Paul as if he were a little mouse, and the house were a 
trap. He was a weak-eyed young man, with the first 
faint streaks or early dawn of a grin on his countenance. 
It was mere imbecility ; but Mrs. Pipchin took it into 


214 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


her head that it was impudence, and made a snap at 
him directly. 

“ How dare you laugh behind the gentleman’s back ? ” 
said Mrs. Pipchin. “And what do you take me for?” 

“ I aVt a-laughing at nobody, and I’m sure I don’t 
take you for nothing, ma’am,” returned the young naan, 
in consternation. 

“ A pack of idle dogs ! ” said Mrs. Pipchin, “ only fit 
to be turnspits. Go and tell your master that Mr. Dom- 
bey’s here, or it’ll be worse for you ! ” 

The weak-eyed young man went, very meekly, to dis- 
charge himself of this commission ; and soon came back 
to invite them to the doctor’s study. 

“ You’re laughing again, sir,” said Mrs. Pipchin, when 
it came to her turn, bringing up the rear, to pass him in 
the hall. 

“ I cdn't” returned the young man, grievously op- 
pressed. “ I never see such a thing as this ! ” 

“ What is the matter, Mrs. Pipchin ? ” said Mr. Dom- 
bey, looking round. “ Softly ! Pray ! ” 

Mrs. Pipchin, in her deference, merely muttered at the 
young man as she passed on, and said, “ Oh ! he was a 
precious fellow ” — leaving the young man, who was all 
meekness and incapacity, affected even to tears by the 
incident. But Mrs. Pipchin had a way of falling foul 
of all meek people ; and her friends said who could 
wonder at it, after the Peruvian mines ! 

The doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a 
globe at each knee, books all round him, Homer over the 
door, and Minerva on the mantel-shelf. “ And hew do 
you, sir,” he said to Mr. Dombey, “ and how is my little 
friend ? ” Grave as an organ was the doctor’s speech ; 
and when he ceased, the great clock in the hall seemed 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


215 


(to Paul at least) to take him up, and to go on saying, 
how, is, my, lit, tie, friend, how, is, my, lit, tie, friend,” 
over and over and over again. 

The little friend being something too small to be seen 
at all from where the doctor sat, over the books on his 
table, the doctor made several futile attempts to get a 
view of him round the legs; which Mr. Dombey per- 
ceiving, relieved the doctor from his embarrassment by 
taking Paul up in his arms, and sitting him on another 
little table, over against the doctor, in the middle of the 
room. 

“ Ha ! ” said the doctor, leaning back in his chair with 
his hand in his breast. “ Now I see my little friend. 
How do you do, my little friend ? ” 

The clock in the hall wouldn’t subscribe to this al- 
teration in the form of words, but continued to repeat 
“ how, is, my, lit, tie, friend, how, is, my, lit, tie, friend !” 

“ Very well, I thank you, sir,” returned Paul, answer- 
ing the clock quite as much as the doctor. 

“ Ha ! ” said Dr. Blimber. “ Shall we make a man 
of him ? ” 

“ Do you hear, Paul ? ” added Mr. Dombey ; Paul 
being silent. 

“Shall we make a man of him?” repeated the 
doctor. 

I had rather be a child,” replied Paul. 

“ Indeed ! ” said the doctor. “ Why ? ” 

The child sat on the table looking at him, with a 
curious expression of suppressed emotion in his face, 
and beating one hand proudly on his knee as if he had 
ihe rising tears beneath it, and crushed them. But his 
other hand strayed a little way the while, a little farther 
*— farther from him yet — until it lighted on the neck 


216 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ot’ Florence. “ This is why,” it seemed to say, and 
then the steady look was broken up and gone ; the 
working lip was loosened ; and the tears came streaming 
forth. 

“ Mrs. Pipchin,” said his father, in a querulous man- 
ner, “ I am really very sorry to see this.” 

u Come away from him, do, Miss Dombey,” quoth the 
matron. 

“ Never mind,” said the doctor, blandly nodding his 
head, to keep Mrs. Pipchin back. “ Ne-ver mind ; we 
shall substitute new cares and new impressions, Mr. 
Dombey, very shortly. You would still wish my little 
friend to acquire ” — 

“ Everything, if you please, doctor,” returned Mr. 
Dombey firmly. 

“ Yes,” said the doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes, 
and his usual smile, seemed to survey Paul with the 
sort of interest that might attach to some choice little 
animal he was going to stuff. “ Yes, exactly. Ha ! 
We shall impart a great variety of information to our 
little friend, and bring him quickly forward, I dare say. 
I dare say. Quite a virgin soil, I believe you said, Mr. 
Dombey ? ” 

“ Except some ordinary preparation at home, and from 
this lady,” replied Mr. Dombey, introducing Mrs. Pip- 
chin, who instantly communicated a rigidity to her whole 
muscular system, and snorted defiance beforehand, in case 
the doctor should disparage her; “except so far, Paul 
has, as yet, applied himself to no studies at all.” 

Doctor Blimber inclined his head, in gentle tolerance 
of such insignificant poaching as Mrs. Pipchin’s, and 
said he was glad to hear it. It was much more satisfac- 
tory, he observed, rubbing his hands, to begin at the foun- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


217 


dation. And again he leered at Paul, as if he would 
have liked to tackle him with the Greek alphabet on 
the spot. 

“ That circumstance, indeed, Doctor Blimber,” pursued 
Mr. Dombey, glancing at his little son, “ and the inter- 
view I have already had the pleasure of holding with 
you, renders any further explanation, and consequently, 
any further intrusion on your valuable time, so unneces- 
sary, that ” — 

“Now, Miss Dombey ! ” said the acid Pipchin. 

“Permit, me,” said the doctor, “one moment. Allow 
me to present Mrs. Blimber and my daughter, who will 
be associated with the domestic life of our young Pilgrim 
to Parnassus. Mrs. Blimber,” for the lady, who had 
perhaps been in waiting, opportunely entered, followed 
by her daughter, that fair sexton in spectacles, “ Mr. 
Dombey. My daughter Cornelia, Mr. Dombey. Mr. 
Dombey, my love,” pursued the doctor, turning to his 
wife, “is so confiding as to — do you see our little 
friend ? ” 

Mrs. Blimber, in an excess of politeness, of which 
Mr. Dombey was the object, apparently did not, for she 
was backing against the little friend, and very much en- 
dangering his position on the table. But, on this hint, 
she turned to admire his classical and intellectual linea- 
ments, and turning again to Mr. Dombey, said, with a 
sigh, that she envied his dear son. 

“ Like a bee, sir,” said Mrs. Blimber, with up'iftel 
eyes, “ about to plunge into a garden of the choicest 
flowers, and sip the sweets for the first time. Virgil, 
Horace, Ovid, Terence, Plautus, Cicero. What a world 
of honey have we here. It may appear remarkable, 
Mr. Dombey, in one who is a wife — the wife of such a 
husband ” — 


218 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Hush, hush," said Doctor Blimber. “ Fie for 
shame.” 

“ Mr. Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife,” 
said Mrs. Blimber, with an engaging smile. 

Mr. Dombey answered “ Not. at all : ” applying those 
words* it is to be presumed, to the partiality, and not to 
the forgiveness. 

— “And it may seem remarkable in one who is a 
mother also,” resumed Mrs. Blimber. 

“ And such a mother,” observed Mr. Dombey, bowing 
with some confused idea of being complimentary to Cor- 
nelia. 

“ But really,” pursued Mrs. Blimber, “ I think if I 
could have known Cicero, and been his friend, and 
talked with him in his retirement at Tusculum (beau-ti- 
ful Tusculum !) I could have died contented.” 

A learned enthusiasm is so very contagious, that Mr. 
Dombey half believed this was exactly his case ; and 
even Mrs. Pipchin, who was not, as we have seen, of an 
accommodating disposition generally, gave utterance to 
a little sound between a groan and a sigh, as if she 
would have said that nobody but Cicero could have 
proved a lasting consolation under that failure of the 
Peruvian Mines, but that he indeed would have been a 
very Davy-1 amp of refuge. 

Cornelia looked at Mr. Dombey through her spec- 
tacles, as if she would have liked to crack a few quota- 
tions with him from the authority in question. But this 
design, if she entertained it, was frustrated by a knock 
at the room-door. 

“ Who is that ? ” said the doctor. “ Oh ! Come in, 
Toots; come in. Mr. Dombey, sir.” Toots bowed. 
* Quite a coincidence!” said Doctor Blimber. “ Here 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


219 


we have the beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega. 
Our head boy, Mr. Dombey.” 

The doctor might have called him their head and 
shoulders boy, for he was at least that much taller than 
any of the rest. He blushed very much at finding him* 
self among strangers, and chuckled aloud. 

“An addition to our little Portico, Toots,” said the 
doctor ; “ Mr. Dqmbey’s son.” 

Young Toots blushed again ; and finding, from a 
solemn silence which prevailed, that he was expected 
to say something, said to Paul, “ How are you ? ” in a 
voice so deep, and a manner so sheepish, that if a lamb 
had roared it couldn’t have been more surprising. 

“Ask Mr. Feeder, if you please, Toots,” said the 
doctor, “ to prepare a few introductory volumes for Mr. 
Dombey’s son, and to allot him a convenient seat for 
study. My dear, I believe Mr. Dombey has not seen 
the dormitories,” 

“ If Mr. Dombey will walk up-stairs,” said Mrs. Blim- 
ber, “ I shall be more than proud to show him the do- 
minions of the drowsy god.” 

With that, Mrs. Blimber, who was a lady of great 
suavity, and a wiry figure, and who wore a cap com- 
posed of sky-blue materials, proceeded up-stairs with 
Mr. Dombey and Cornelia ; Mrs. Pipchin following, and 
looking out sharp for her enemy the footman. 

While they were gone, Paul sat upon the table hold- 
ing Florence by the hand, and glancing timidly from the 
doctor round and round the room, while the doctor, lean- 
ing back in his chair, with his hand in his breast as 
usual, held a book from him at arm’s length, and read. 
There was something very awful in this manner of read- 
ing. It was such a determined, unimpassioned, inflexible, 


220 


DOMBEt AND SON. 


cold-blooded way of going to work. It left the doctor’s 
countenance exposed to view; and when the doctor 
smiled auspiciously at his author, or knit his brOWs, or 
shook his head and made wry faces at I*im as much as 
to say, “ Don’t tell me, sir. I know better,” it was ter- 
rific. 

Toots, too, had no business to be outside the door, 
ostentatiously examining the wheels in his watch, and 
counting his half-crowns. But that didn’t last long ; for 
Doctor Blimber, happening to change the position of 
his tight plump legs, as if he were going to get up, 
Toots swiftly vanished, and appeared no more. 

Mr. Dombey and his conductress were soon heard 
coming down-stairs again, talking all the way ; and pres- 
ently they reentered the doctor’s study. 

“I hope, Mr. Dombey,” said the doctor, laying down 
his book, “ that the arrangements meet your approval.” 

“ They are excellent, sir,” said Mr. Dombey. 

“Very fair, indeed,” said Mrs. Pipchin, in a low voice; 
never disposed to give too much encouragement. 

“ Mrs. Pipchin,” said Mr. Dombey, wheeling round, 
“ will, with your permission, Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, 
visit Paul now and then.” 

“Whenever Mrs. Pipchin pleases,” observed the 
doctor. 

“ Always happy to see her,” said Mrs. Blimber. 

“I think,” said Mr. Dombey, “ I have given all the 
trouble I need, and may take my leave. Paul, my 
child,” he went close to him, as he sat upon the table. 
‘^Good-by.” 

“ Good-by, papa.” 

The limp and careless little hand that Mr. Dombey 
took in his, was singularly out of keeping with the wist- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


221 

ful face. But he had no part in its sorrowful expression. 
It was not addressed to him. No, no, to Florence — 
all to Florence. 

If Mr. Dombey in his insolence of wealth, had ever 
made an enemy, hard to appease and cruelly vindictive 
in his hate, even such an enemy might have received 
flic pang that wrung his proud heart then, as compensa- 
tion for his injury. 

He bent down over his boy, and kissed him. If his 
sight were dimmed as he did so, by something that for a 
moment blurred the little face, and made it indistinct to 
him, his mental vision may have been, for that short 
time, the clearer perhaps. 

“ I shall see you soon, Paul. You are free on Satur- 
days and Sundays, you know.” 

“ Yes, papa,” returned Paul : looking at his sister. 
“ On Saturdays and Sundays.” 

“ And you’ll try and learn a great deal here, and be 
a clever man,” said Mr. Dombey ; “ won’t you ? ” 

“I’ll try,” returned the child wearily. 

“ And you’ll soon be grown up now ! ” said Mr. Dom- 
bey. 

“ Oh ! very soon ! ” replied the child. Once more 
the old, old look, passed rapidly across his features, like 
a strange light. It fell on Mrs. Pipchin, and extin- 
guished itself in her black dress. That excellent ogress 
stepped forward to take leave and to bear off Florence, 
which she had long been thirsting to do. The move on 
her part roused Mr. Dombey, whose eyes were fixed on 
Paul. After patting him on the head, and pressing his 
small hand again, he took leave of Doctor Blimber, Mrs. 
Blimber, and Miss Blimber, with his usual polite frigid- 
ity, and walked out of the study. 


222 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Despite his entreaty that they would not think of stir- 
ring, Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss Blimber 
all pressed forward to attend him to the hall ; and thus 
Mrs. Pipchin got into a state of entanglement with Miss 
Blimber and the doctor, and was crowded out of the 
study before she could clutch Florence. To which 
happy accident Paul stood afterwards indebted for the 
dear remembrance, that Florence ran back tc throw her 
arms round his neck, and that hers was the last face in 
the door-way : turned towards him with a smile of en- 
couragement, the brighter for the tears through which it 
beamed. 

It made his childish bosom heave and swell when it 
was gone ; and sent the globes, the books, blind Homer 
and Minerva, swimming round the room. But they 
stopped, all of a sudden ; and then he heard the loud 
clock in the hall still gravely inquiring “ how, is, my, lit, 
tie, friend, how, is, my, lit, tie, friend,” as it had done 
before. 

He sat, with folded hands, upon his pedestal, silently 
listening. But he might have answered “ weary, weary ! 
very lonely, very sad ! ” And there, with an aching void 
in his young heart, and all outside so cold, and bare, and 
strange, Paul sat as if he had taken life unfurnished, aud 
the upholsterer were never coming. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


223 


CHAPTER XII. 

Paul’s education. 

After the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an 
immense time to little Paul Dombey on the table, Doctor 
Blimber came back. The doctor’s walk was stately, and 
calculated to impress the juvenile mind with solemn feel- 
ings. It was a sort of march ; but when the doctor put 
out his right foot, he gravely turned upon his axis, with 
a semicircular sweep towards the left ; and when he put 
out his left foot, he turned in the same manner towards 
the right. So that he seemed, at every stride he took, to 
look about him as though he were saying, “ Can anybody 
have the goodness to indicate any subject, in any direc- 
tion, on which I am uninformed ? I rather think not.” 

Mrs. Blimber and Miss Blimber came back in the 
doctor’s company ; and the doctor, lifting his new pupil 
off the table, delivered him over to Miss Blimber. 

“ Cornelia,” said the doctor, “ Dombey will be your 
charge at first. Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on.” 

Miss Blimber received her young ward from the doc- 
tor’s hands ; and Paul, feeling that the spectacles were 
surveying him, cast down his eyes. 

“ How old are you, Dombey ? ” said Miss Blimber. 

“ Six,” answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance 
at the young lady, why her hair didn’t grow long like 
Florence’s, and why she was like a boy. 


224 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, 
Dombey ? ” said Miss Blimber. 

“None of it,” answered Paul. Feeling that the an- 
swer was a shock to Miss Blimber’s sensibility, he 
looked up at the three faces that were looking down 
it him, and said : — 

“ I haven’t been well. I have been a weak child. I 
couldn’t learn a Latin Grammar when I was out, every 
day, with old Glubb. I wish you’d tell old Glubb to 
come and see me, if you please.” 

“ What a dreadfully low name ! ” said Mrs. Blimber. 
“ Unclassical to a degree ! Who is the monster, child ? ” 
“ What monster ? ” inquired Paul. 

“ Glubb,” said Mrs. Blimber, with a great disrelish. 

“ He’s no more a monster than you are,” returned 
Paul. 

“ What ! ” cried the doctor, in a terrible voice. “ Ay, 
ay, ay ? Ah ! What’s that ? ” 

Paul was dreadfully frightened ; but still he made a 
stand for the absent Glubb, though he did it trembling. 

“ He’s a very nice old man, ma’am,” he said. “ He 
used to draw my couch. He knows all about the deep 
sea, and the fish that are in it, and the great monsters 
that come and lie on rocks in the sun, and dive into the 
water again when they’re startled, blowing and splashing 
so, that they can be heard for miles. There are some 
creatures,” said Paul, warming with his subject, “ I don’t 
know how many yards long, and I forget their names, 
but Florence knows, that pretend to be in distress ; and 
lien a man goes near them, out of compassion, they 
^pen their great jaws, and attack him. But all he has 
got to do,” said Paul, boldly tendering this information 
the very doctor himself, " is to keep on turning as he 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


225 


runs away, and then, as they turn slowly, because they 
are so long, and can’t bend, he’s sure to beat them. And 
though old Glubb don’t know why the sea should make 
me think of my mama that’s dead, or what it is that it is 
always saying — always saying ! he knows a great deal 
about it. And I wish,” the child concluded, with a sud- 
den falling of his countenance, and failing in his anima- 
tion, as he looked like one forlorn, upon the three strange 
faces, “ that you’d let old Glubb come here to see me, 
for I know him very well, and he knows me.” 

“ Ha ! ” said the doctor, shaking his head ; “ this is 
bad, but study will do much.” 

Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, 
that he was an unaccountable child ; and, allowing for 
the difference of visage, looked at him pretty much as 
Mrs. Pipchin had been used to do. 

“ Take him round the house, Cornelia,” said the 
doctor, “ and familiarize him with his new sphere. Go 
with that young lady, Dombey.” 

Dombey obeyed ; giving his hand to the abstruse 
Cornelia, and looking at her sideways, with timid curi- 
osity, as they went away together. For her spectacles, 
by reason of the glistening of the glasses, made her so 
mysterious, that he didn’t know where she was looking, 
and was not indeed quite sure that she had any eyes at 
all behind them. 

Cornelia took him first to the school-room, which was 
situated at the back of the hall, and was approached 
through two baize doors, which deadened and muffled 
the young gentlemen’s voices. Here, there were eight 
young gentlemen in various stages of mental prostration, 
all very hard at work, and very grave indeed. Toots, 
as an old hand, had a desk to himself in one corner : and 
VOL. i. 15 


226 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a magnificent man, of immense age, he looked, in Paul’s 
young eyes, behind it. 

Mr. Feeder, B. A., who sat at another little desk, had 
his Virgil stop on, and was slowly grinding that tune to 
four young gentlemen. Of the remaining four, two, who 
grasped their foreheads convulsively, were engaged in 
solving mathematical problems ; one with his face like 
a dirty window, from much crying, was endeavoring to 
flounder through a hopeless number of lines before din- 
ner ; and one sat looking at his task in stony stupefaction 
and despair — which it seemed had been his condition 
ever since breakfast time. 

The appearance of a new boy did not create the sen- 
sation that might have been expected. Mr. Feeder, B. A. 
(who was in the habit of shaving his head for coolness, 
and had nothing but little bristles on it), gave him a 
bony hand, and told him he was glad to see him — which 
Paul would have been very glad to have told him , , if he 
could have done so with the least sincerity. Then Paul, 
instructed by Cornelia, shook hands with the four young 
gentlemen at Mr. Feeder’s desk ; then with the two 
young gentlemen at work on the problems, who were 
very feverish : then with the young gentleman at work 
against time, who was very inky ; and lastly with the 
young gentleman in a state of stupefaction, who was 
flabby and quite cold. 

Paul having been already introduced to Toots, that 
pupil merely chuckled and breathed hard, as his custom 
was, and pursued the occupation in which he was en- 
gaged. It was not a severe one ; for on account of his 
having “ gone through ” so much (in more senses than 
one), and also of his having, as before hinted, left off 
blowing in his prime, Toots now had license to pursue 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


227 


bis own course of study; which was chiefly to write long 
letters to himself from persons of distinction, addressed 
u P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, Sussex,” and to preserve 
them in his desk with great care. 

These ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul up-stairs 
to the top of the house ; which was rather a slow jour- 
ney, on account of Paul being obliged to land both feet 
cu every stair, before he mounted another. But they 
reached their journey’s end at last ; and there, in a 
front room, looking over the wild sea, Cornelia showed 
him a nice little bed with white hangings, close to the 
window, on which there was already beautifully written 
on a card in round text — down strokes very thick, and 
up strokes very fine — Dombey ; while two other little 
bedsteads in the same room were announced, through 
like means, as respectively appertaining unto Briggs 
and Tozer. 

Just as they got down-stairs again into the hall, Paul 
saw the weak-eyed young man who had given that mor- 
tal offence to Mrs. Pipchin, suddenly seize a very large 
drumstick, and fly at a gong that was hanging up, as 
if he had gone mad, or wanted vengeance. Instead of 
receiving warning, however, or being instantly taken into 
custody, the young man left off unchecked, after having 
made a dreadful noise. Then Cornelia Blimber said 
to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a quarter of 
an hour, and perhaps he had better go into the school- 
room among his “ friends.” 

So Dombey, deferentially passing the great clock 
which was still as anxious as ever to know how he 
found himself, opened the school-room door a very little 
way, and strayed in like a lost boy : shutting it after 
him with some difficulty. His friends were all dispersed 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


m 

about the room except the stony friend, who remained 
immovable. Mr. Feeder was stretching himself in his 
gray gown, as if, regardless of expense, he were resolved 
to pull the sleeves off. 

“ Heigh ho hum!” cried Mr. Feeder, shaking him- 
self like a cart-horse, “ Oh dear me, dear me ! Ya-a-a- 
ah!” 

Paul was quite alarmed by Mr. Feeder’s yawning; 
it was done on such a great scale, and he was so ter- 
ribly in earnest. All the boys too (Toots excepted) 
seemed knocked up, and were getting ready for dinner 
— some newly tying their neck-cloths, which were very 
stiff indeed ; and others washing their hands or brush- 
ing their hair, in an adjoining ante-chamber — as if 
they didn’t think they should enjoy it at all. 

Young Toots who was ready beforehand, and had 
therefore nothing to do, and had leisure to bestow upon 
Paul, said, with heavy good nature : 

“ Sit down, Dombey.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Paul. 

His endeavoring to hoist himself on to a very high 
window-seat, and his slipping down again, appeared 
to prepare Toots’s mind for the reception of a dis- 
covery. 

“ You’re a very small chap,” said Mr. Toots. 

“ Yes, sir, I’m small,” returned Paul. “ Thank you, 

_• » 

Sir. 

For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done it 
kindly too. 

“ Who’s your tailor ? ” inquired Toots, after looking 
at him for some moments. 

“ It’s a woman that has made my clothes as yet,” said 
Paul. “My sister’s dress-maker.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


229 


“ My tailor’s Burgess and Co.,” said Toots. “ Fash’- 
nable. But very dear.” 

Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he 
would have said it was easy to see that ; and indeed he 
thought so. 

“ Your father’s regularly rich, a’n’t he ? ” inquired Mr. 
Toots. 

* Yes, sir,” said Paul. “ He’s Dombey and Son.” 

“ And which ? ” demanded Toots. 

u And Son, sir,” replied Paul. 

Mr. Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice, 
to fix the firm in his mind ; but not quite succeeding, 
said he would get Paul to mention the name again 
to-morrow morning, as it was rather important. And 
indeed he purposed nothing less than writing himself 
a private and confidential letter from Dombey and Son 
immediately. 

By this time the other pupils (always excepting the 
stony boy) gathered round. They were polite, but pale ; 
and spoke low ; and they were so depressed in their 
spirits, that in comparison with the general tone of that 
company, Master Bitherstone was a perfect Miller, or 
complete Jest Book. And yet he had a sense of in- 
jury upon him too, had Bitherstone. 

“ You sleep in my room, don’t you ? ” asked a solemn 
young gentleman, whose shirt-collar curled up the lobes 
of his ears. 

u Master Briggs ? ” inquired Paul. 

“ Tozer,” said the young gentleman. 

Paul answered yes ; and Tozer pointing out the stony 
pupil, said that was Briggs. Paul had already felt cer- 
tain that it must be either Briggs or Tozer, thbugh he 
didn’t know why. 


230 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Is yours a strong constitution ? ” inquired Tozer. 

Paul said he thought not. Tozer replied that he 
thought not also, judging from Paul’s looks, and that it 
was a pity, for it need be. He then asked Paul if he 
were going to begin with Cornelia ; and on Paul’s say- 
ing * yes,” all the young gentlemen (Briggs excepted) 
gave a low groan. 

It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong, 
which sounding again with great fury, there was a 
general move towards the dining-room ; still excepting 
Briggs the stony boy, who remained where he was, and 
as he was ; and on its way to whom Paul presently 
encountered a round of bread, genteelly served on a 
plate and napkin, and with a silver fork lying cross- 
wise on the top of it. Doctor Blimber was already in 
his place in the dining-room, at the top of the table, 
with Miss Blimber and Mrs. Blimber on either side of 
him. Mr. Feeder in a black coat was at the bottom. 
Paul’s chair was next to Miss Blimber ; but it being 
found, when he sat in it, that his eyebrows were not 
much above the level of the table-cloth, some books were 
brought in from the doctor’s study, on which he was 
elevated, and on which he always sat from that time — 
carrying them in and out himself on after occasions, like 
a little elephant and castle. 

Grace having been said by the doctor, dinner began. 
There was some nice soup ; also roast meat, boiled meat, 
vegetables, pie, and cheese. Every young gentleman 
had a massive silver fork, and a napkin ; and all the 
arrangements were stately and handsome. In particu- 
lar, there was a butler in a blue coat and bright but- 
tons, whb gave quite a winey flavor to the table beer $ 
he poured it out so superbly. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


231 


Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blim- 
ber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss Blirnber, who conversed 
occasionally. Whenever a young gentleman was not 
actually engaged with his knife and fork or spoon, his 
eye, with an irresistible attraction, sought the eye of 
Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, or Miss Blimber, and 
modestly rested there. Toots appeared to be the only 
exception to this rule. He sat next Mr. Feeder on 
Paul’s side of the table, and frequently looked behind 
and before the intervening boys to catch a glimpse of 
Paul. 

Only once during dinner was there any conversation 
that included the young gentlemen. It happened at 
the epoch of the cheese, when the doctor, having taken 
a glass of port wine, and hemmed twice or thrice, 
said : 

“ It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder, that the Romans ” — 

At the mention of this terrible people, their implac- 
able enemies, every young gentleman fastened his gaze 
upon the doctor, with an assumption of the deepest in- 
terest. One of the number who happened to be drink- 
ing, and who caught the doctor’s eye glaring at him 
through the side of his tumbler, left off so hastily that 
he was convulsed for some moments, and in the sequel 
ruined Doctor Blimber’s point. 

“ It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder,” said the doctor, 
beginning again slowly, “ that the Romans, in those 
gorgeous and profuse entertainments of which we read 
in the days of the Emperors, when luxury had attained 
a height unknown before or since, and when whole prov- 
inces were ravaged to supply the splendid means of 
une imperial banquet” — 

Here the offender, who had been swelling and strain 


232 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ing, and waiting in vain for a full stop, broke out 
violently. 

“ Johnson,' ” said Mr. Feeder, in a low reproachful 
voice, “ take some water.” 

The doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until 
the water was brought, and then resumed : 

“And when, Mr. Feeder” — 

But Mr. Feeder, who saw that Johnson must break 
out again, and who knew that the doctor would never 
come to a period before the young gentlemen until he 
had finished all he meant to say, couldn’t keep his eye 
off Johnson ; and thus was caught in the fact of not 
looking at the doctor, who consequently stopped. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Feeder, redden- 
ing. “ I beg your pardon, Doctor Blimber.” 

“ And when,” said the doctor, raising his voice, 
“ when, sir, as we read, and have no reason to doubt 
— incredible as it may appear to the vulgar of our 
time — the brother of Yitellius prepared for him a feast, 
in which were served, of fish, two thousand dishes ” — 

“ Take some water, Johnson — dishes, sir,” said Mr. 
Feeder. 

“ Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.” 

“ Or try a crust of bread,” said Mr. F eeder. 

“ And one dish,” pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his 
voice still higher as he looked all round the table, 
u (jailed, from its enormous dimensions, the Shield of 
Minerva, and made, among other costly ingredients, of 
the brains of pheasants ” — 

“ Ow, ow, ow ! ” (from Johnson.) 

“ Woodcocks,” 

“ Ow, ow, ow ! ” 

u The sounds of the fish called scari,” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


233 


“You’ll burst some vessel in your head,” said Mr. 
Feeder. “ You had better let it come.” 

“ And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the 
Carpathian Sea,” pursued the doctor in his severest 
voice ; “ when we read of costly entertainments such as 
these, and still remember, that we have a Titus,” 

“ What would be your mother’s feelings if you died 
of apoplexy ! ” said Mr. Feeder. 

“ A Domitian,” 

“ And you’re blue, you know,” said Mr. Feeder. 

a A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and 
many more,” pursued the doctor ; “ it is, Mr. Feeder — 
if you are doing me the honor to attend — remarkable ; 
very remarkable, sir ” — 

But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst 
at that moment into such an overwhelming fit of 
coughing, that, although both his immediate neighbors 
thumped him on the back, and Mr. Feeder himself 
held a glass of water to his lips, and the butler walked 
him up and down several times between his own chair 
and the sideboard, like a sentry, it was full five minutes 
before he was moderately composed, and then there was 
a profound silence. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Doctor Blimber, “ rise for Grace ! 
Cornelia, lift Dombey down ” — nothing of whom but 
his scalp was accordingly seen above the table-cloth. 
“ Johnson will repeat to me to-morrow morning before 
breakfast, without book, and from the Greek Testament, 
the first chapter of the Epistle of Saint Paul to the 
Ephesians. We will resume our studies, Mr. Feeder, 
in half an hour.” 

The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr. 
Feeder did likewise. During the half-hour, the young 


234 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


gentlemen, broken into pairs, loitered ai n -in-arm up 
and down a small piece of ground behind the house, 
or endeavored to kindle a spark of animation in the 
breast of Briggs. But nothing happened so vulgar as 
play. Punctually at the appointed time, the gong was 
sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices of 
Doctor Blimber and Mr. Feeder were resumed. 

As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had 
been cut shorter than usual that day, on Johnson’s ac- 
count, they all went out for a walk before tea. Even 
Briggs (though he hadn’t begun yet) partook of this 
dissipation ; in the enjoyment of which he looked over 
the cliff two or three times darkly. Doctor Blimber 
accompanied them ; and Paul had the honor of being 
taken in tow by the doctor himself : a distinguished 
state of things, in which he looked very little and 
feeble. 

Tea was served in a style no less polite than the 
dinner ; and after tea, the young gentlemen rising and 
bowing as before, withdrew to fetch up the unfinished 
tasks of that day, or to get up the already looming tasks 
of to-morrow. In the mean time Mr. Feeder withdrew 
to his own room ; and Paul sat in a corner wondering 
whether Florence was thinking of him, and what they 
were all about at Mrs. Pipchin’s. 

Mr. Toots, who had been detained by an important 
letter from the Duke of Wellington, found Paul out 
after a time ; and having looked at him for a long while, 
as before, inquired if he was fond of waistcoats. 

Paul said “ Yes, sir.” 

“ So am I,” said Toots. 

No word more spake Toots that night ; but he stood 
looking at Paul as if he liked him ; and as there was 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


235 


company in that, and Paul was not inclined to talk, it 
answered his purpose better than conversation. 

At eight o’clock or so, the gong sounded again for 
prayers in the dining-room, where the butler afterwards 
presided over a side-table, on which bread and cheese 
and beer were spread for such young gentlemen as 
desired to partake of those refreshments. The cere- 
monies concluded by the doctor’s saying, “ Gentlemen, 
we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow ; ” and 
then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber’s 
eye, and saw that it was upon him. When the doctor 
had said these words, “ Gentlemen, we will resume our 
studies at seven to-morrow,” the pupils bowed again, 
and went to bed. 

In the confidence of their own room up-stairs, Briggs 
said his head ached ready to split, and that he should 
wish himself dead if it wasn’t for his mother, and a 
blackbird he had at home. Tozer didn’t say much, but 
he sighed a good deal, and told Paul to look out, for his 
turn would come to-morrow. After uttering those pro- 
phetic words, he undressed himself moodily, and got into 
bed. Briggs was in his bed too, and Paul in his bed too, 
before the weak-eyed young man appeared to take away 
the candle, when he wished them good-night and pleas- 
ant dreams. But his benevolent wishes were in vain, 
as far as Briggs and Tozer were concerned ; for Paul, 
who lay awake for a long while, and often woke after- 
wards, found that Briggs was ridden by his lesson as 
a nightmare ; and that Tozer, whose mind was affected 
in his sleep by similar causes, in a mincrr degree, talked 
unknown tongues, or scraps of Greek and Latin — it 
was all one to Paul — which, in the silence of night, had 
an inexpressibly wicked and guilty effect. 


236 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that 
he was walking hand in hand with Florence through 
beautiful gardens, when they came to a large sunflower 
which suddenly expanded itself into a gong, and began 
to sound. Opening his eyes, he found that it was a 
dark, windy morning, with a drizzling rain ; and that 
the real gong was giving dreadful note of preparation, 
down in the hall. 

So he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly 
any eyes, for nightmare and grief had made his face 
puffy, putting his boots on : while Tozer stood shiver- 
ing and rubbing his shoulders in a very bad humor. 
Poor Paul couldn’t dress himself easily, not being used 
to it, and asked them if they would have the goodness 
to tie some strings for him ; but as Briggs merely said 
“ Bother ! ” and Tozer, “ Oh yes ! ” he went down when 
he was otherwise ready, to the next story, where he 
saw a pretty young woman in leather gloves, cleaning 
a stove. The young woman seemed surprised at his 
appearance, and asked him where his mother was. 
When Paul told her she was dead, she took her gloves 
off, and did what he wanted; and furthermore rubbed 
his hands to warm them ; and gave him a kiss ; and 
told him whenever he wanted anything of that sort — 
meaning in the dressing way — to ask for ’Melia ; which 
Paul, thanking her very much, said he certainly would. 
He then proceeded softly on his journey down-stairs, 
towards the room in which the young gentlemen re- 
sumed their studies, when, passing by a door that stood 
ajar, a voice from within cried “ Is that Dombey ? ” On 
Paul replying, “Yes, ma’am:” for he knew the voice 
to be Miss Blimber’s : Miss Blimber said “ Come in, 
Dombey.” And in he went. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


237 


Miss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she 
had presented yesterday, except that she wore a shawl. 
Her little light curls were as crisp as ever, and she had 
already her spectacles on, which made Paul wonder 
whether she went to bed in them. She had a cool lit- 
tle sitting-room of her own up there, with some books 
in it, and no fire. But Miss Blimber was never cold, 
and never sleepy. 

“ Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, “ Pm going out 
for a constitutional.” 

Paul wondered what that was, and why she didn’t 
send the footman out to get it in such unfavorable 
weather. But he made no observation on the subject : 
his attention being devoted to a little pile of new books, 
on which Miss Blimber appeared to have been recently 
engaged. 

“ These are yours, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. 

“ All of ’em, ma’am ? ” said Paul. 

“Yes,” returned Miss Blimber; “and Mr. Feeder 
will look you out some more very soon, if you are as 
studious as I expect you will be, Dombey.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Paul. 

“ I am going out for a constitutional,” resumed Miss 
Blimber ; “ and while I am gone, that is to say in the 
interval between this and breakfast, Dombey, I wish 
you to read over what I have marked in these books, 
and to tell me if you quite understand what you have 
got to learn. Don’t lose time, Dombey, for you have 
none to spare, but take them down-stairs, and begin 
directly.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered Paul. 

There were so many of them, that although Paul put 
one hand under the bottom book and his other hand 


238 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and his chin on the top book, and hugged them all 
closely, the middle book slipped out before he reached 
the door, and then they all tumbled down on the floor. 
Miss Blimber said, “Oh, Dombey, Dombey, this is really 
very careless ! ” and piled them up afresh for him ; and 
this time, by dint of balancing them with great nicety, 
Paul got out of the room, and down a few stairs be- 
fore two of them escaped again. But he held the rest 
so tight, that he only left one more on the first floor, 
and one in the passage ; and when he had got the main 
body down into the school-room, he set off up-stairs 
again to collect the stragglers. Having at last amassed 
the whole library, and climbed into his place, he fell to 
work, encouraged by a remark from Tozer to the effect 
that he “ was in for it now ; ” which was the only inter- 
ruption he received till breakfast time. At that meal, 
for which he had no appetite, everything was quite as 
solemn and genteel as at the others; and when it was 
finished, he followed Miss Blimber up-stairs. 

“ Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. “ How have 
you got on with those books ? ” 

They comprised a little English, and a deal of Latin 
— names of things, declensions of articles and substan- 
tives, exercises thereon, and preliminary rules — a trifle 
of orthography, a glance at ancient history, a wink or 
two at modern ditto, a few tables, two or three weights 
and measures, and a little general information. When 
poor Paul had spelt out number two, he found he had no 
idea of number one; fragments whereof afterwards ob- 
truded themselves into number three, which slided into 
number four, which grafted itself on to number two. 
So that whether twenty Rom uluses made a Remus, or 
hie hsec hoc was troy weight, or a verb always agreed 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


239 


with an ancient Briton, or three times four was Taurus 
a bull, were open questions with him. 

“ Oh, Dombey, Dombey ! ” said Miss Blimber, “ this 
is very shocking.” 

“ If you please,” said Paul, “ I think if I might some- 
times talk a little to old Glubb, I should be able to do 
better.” 

“ Nonsense, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. “ I couldn’t 
hear of it. This is not the place for Glubbs of any 
kind. You must take the books down, I suppose, 
Dombey, one by one, and perfect yourself in the day’s 
instalment of subject A, before you turn at all to sub- 
ject B. And now take away the top book, if you 
please, Dombey, and return when you are master of 
the theme.” 

Miss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject 
of Paul’s uninstructed state with a gloomy delight, as 
if she had expected this result, and were glad to find 
that they must be in constant communication. Paul 
withdrew with the top task, as he was told, and labored 
away at it, down below : sometimes remembering every 
word of it, and sometimes forgetting it all, and every- 
thing else besides : until at last he ventured up-stairs 
again to repeat the lesson, when it was nearly all driven 
out of his head before he began, by Miss Blimber’s 
shutting up the book, and saying, “ Go on, Dombey ! ” 
a proceeding so suggestive of the knowledge inside of 
her, that Paul looked upon the young lady with con- 
sternation, as a kind of learned Guy Faux, or artificial 
Bogle, stuffed full of scholastic straw. 

lie acquitted himself very well, neveitheless ; and 
Miss Blimber, commending him as giving promise of 
getting on fast, immediately provided him with subject 


240 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


B ; from which he passed to C, and even D before din- 
ner. It was hard work, resuming his studies, soon after 
dinner ; and he felt giddy and confused, and drowsy and 
dull. But all the other young gentlemen had similar 
sensations, and were obliged to resume their studies too, 
if there were any comfort in that. It was a wonder that 
the great clock in the hall, instead of being constant to 
its first inquiry, never said, “ Gentlemen, we will now 
resume our studies,” for that phrase was often enough 
repeated in its neighborhood. The studies went round 
like a mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen were 
always stretched upon it. 

After tea there were exercises again, and preparations 
for next day by candle-light. And in due course there 
was bed ; where, but for that resumption of the studies 
which took place in dreams, were rest and sweet forget- 
fulness. 

Oh Saturdays ! Oh happy Saturdays ! when Florence 
always came at noon, and never would, in any weather, 
stay away, though Mrs. Pipchin snarled and growled, 
and worried her bitterly. Those Saturdays were Sab- 
baths for at least two little Christians among all the 
Jews, and did the holy Sabbath work of strengthening 
and knitting up a brother’s and a sister’s love. 

Not even Sunday nights — the heavy Sunday nights, 
whose shadow darkened the first waking burst of light 
on Sunday mornings — could mar those precious Satur- 
days. Whether it was the great sea-shore, where they 
eat, and strolled together ; or whether it was only Mrs. 
Pipchin’s dull back room, in which she sung to him so 
softly, with his drowsy head upon her arm ; Paul never 
cared. It was Florence. That was all he thought of. 
So, on Sunday nights, when the doctor’s dark door stood 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


241 


agape to swallow him up for another week, the time was 
come for taking leave of Florence ; no one else. 

Mrs. Wickam had been drafted home to the house in 
town, and Miss Nipper, now a smart young woman, had 
come down. To many a single combat with Mrs. Pip- 
chin, did Miss Nipper gallantly devote herself ; and if 
ever Mrs. Pipchin in all her life had found her match, 
6he had found it now. Miss Nipper threw away the 
scabbard the first morning she arose in Mrs. Pipchin’s 
house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said it 
must be war, and war it was ; and Mrs. Pipchin lived 
from that time in the midst of surprises, harassings, 
and defiances ; and skirmishing attacks that came boun- 
cing in upon her from the passage, even in unguarded 
moments of chops, and carried desolation to her very 
toast. 

Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with 
Florence, from walking back with Paul to the doctor’s, 
when Florence took from her bosom a little piece of 
paper, on which she had pencilled down some words. 

“ See here, Susan,” she said. “ These are the names 
of the little books that Paul brings home to do those 
long exercises with, when he is so tired. I copied them 
last night while he was writing.” 

“ Don’t show ’em to me, Miss Floy, if you please,” 
returned Nipper, “ I’d as soon see Mrs. Pipchin.” 

“ I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you 
will, to-morrow morning. I have money enough,” said 
Florence. 

“ Why, goodness gracious me, Miss Floy,” returned 
Miss Nipper, “ how can you talk like that, when you have 
books upon books already, and masterses and missesses 
a-teaching of you everything continual, though my belief 

VOL. i. 16 


242 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


is that your pa, Miss Dombey, never would have learnt 
you nothing, never would have thought of it, unless you’d 
asked him — when he couldn’t well refuse ; but giving 
consent when asked, and offering when unasked, miss, is 
quite two things ; I may not have my objections to a 
young man’s keeping company with me, and when he 
puts the question, may say 4 yes,’ but that’s not saying 
‘ would you be so kind as like me.’ ” 

44 But you can buy me the books, Susan ; and you will, 
when you know I want them.” 

“Well, miss, and why do you want ’em?” replied 
Nipper ; adding, in a lower voice, “ if it w r as to fling at 
Mrs. Pipchin’s head, I’d buy a cart-load.” 

“ I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, 
if I had these books,” said Florence, 44 and make the 
coming week a little easier to him. At least I want to 
try. So buy them for me, dear, and I will never forget 
how kind it was of you to do it ! ” 

It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nipper’s 
that could have rejected the little purse Florence held 
out with these words, or the gentle look of entreaty with 
which she seconded her petition. Susan put the purse 
in her pocket without reply, and trotted out at once 
upon her errand. 

The books were not easy to procure ; and the answer 
at several shops was, either that they were just out of 
them, or that they never kept them, or that they had had 
a great many last month, or that they expected a great 
many next week. But Susan was not easily baffled in 
such an enterprise ; and having entrapped a white-haired 
youth, in a black calico apron, from a library where 
she was known, to accompany her in her quest, she 
led him such a life in going up and down, that he 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


243 


exerted himself to the utmost, if it were only to get 
rid of her; and finally enabled her to return home in 
triumph. 

With these treasures then, after her own daily les- 
Bons were over, Florence sat down at night to track 
Paul’s footsteps through the thorny ways of learning; 
and being possessed of a naturally quick and sound 
capacity, and taught by that most wonderful of masters, 
love, it was not long before she gained upon Paul’s heels, 
and caught and passed him. 

Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin ; 
but many a night when they were all in bed, and when 
Miss Nipper, with her hair in papers and herself asleep 
in some uncomfortable attitude, reposed unconscious by 
her side ; and when the chinking ashes in the grate 
were cold and gray ; and when the candles were burnt 
down and guttering out ; — Florence tried so hard to 
be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her forti- 
tude and perseverance might have almost won her a 
free right to bear the name herself. 

And high was her reward, when one Saturday even- 
ing, as little Paul was sitting down as usual to “ resume 
his studies,” she sat down by his side, and showed him 
all that was so rough, made smooth, and all that was 
so dark, made clear and plain, before him. It was 
nothing but a startled look in Paul’s wan face — a 
Hush — a smile — and then a close embrace — but God 
knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for 
her trouble. 

“ Oh, Floy ! ” cried her brother, “ how I love you 1 
How I love you, Floy ! ” 

“ And I you, dear ! ” 

“ Oh ! I am s re of that, Floy.” 


244 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


He said no more about it, but all that evening sat 
close by har, very quiet; and in the night he called 
out from his little room within hers, three or four times, 
that he loved her. 

Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit 
down with Paul on Saturday night, and patiently as- 
sist him through so much as they could anticipate to- 
gether, of his next week’s work. The cheering thought 
that he was laboring on where Florence had just toiled 
before him, would, of itself, have been a stimulant to 
Paul in the perpetual resumption of his studies; but 
coupled with the actual lightening of his load, conse- 
quent on this assistance, it saved him, possibly from sink- 
ing underneath the burden which the fair Cornelia Blim- 
ber piled upon his back. 

It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard 
upon him, or that Doctor Blimber meant to bear too 
heavily on the young gentlemen in general. Cornelia 
merely held the faith in which she had been bred ; and 
the doctor, in some partial confusion of his ideas, re- 
garded the young gentlemen as if they were all doc- 
tors, and were born grown up. Comforted by the ap- 
plause of the young gentlemen’s nearest relations, and 
urged on by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste, 
it would have been strange if Doctor Blimber had dis- 
covered his mistake, or trimmed his swelling sails to 
any other tack. 

Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber 
said he made great progress, and was naturally clever, 
Mr. Dombey was more bent than ever on his being 
forced and crammed. In the case of Briggs, when 
Doctor Blimber reported that he did not make great 
progress yet, and was not naturally ?lever, Briggs se- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


245 


nior was inexorable in the same purpose. In short, 
however high and false the temperature at vvhich the 
doctor kept his hot-house, the owners of the plants were 
always ready to lend a helping-hand at the bellows, 
and to stir the fire. 

Such spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost 
of course. But he retained all that was strange, and 
old, and thoughtful in his character: and under cir- 
cumstances so favorable to the development of those 
tendencies, became even more strange, and old, and 
thoughtful, than before. 

The only difference was, that he kept his character 
to himself. He grew more thoughtful and reserved, 
every day ; and had no such curiosity in any living mem- 
ber of the doctor’s household, as he had had in Mrs. 
Pipchin. He loved to be alone ; and in those short in- 
tervals when he was not occupied with his books, liked 
nothing so well as wandering about the house by himself, 
or sitting on the stairs, listening: to {he great clock in the 
hall. He was intimate with all the paper-hanging in 
the house ; saw things that no one else saw in the 
patterns; found out miniature tigers and lions running 
up the bedroom walls, and squinting faces leering in 
the squares and diamonds of the floor-cloths 

The solitary child lived on, surrounded by this ara- 
besque work of his musing fancy, and no one understood 
him. Mrs. Blimber thought him “ odd,” and sometimes 
the servants said among themselves that little Dombey 
u moped ; ” but that was all. 

Unless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to 
the expression of which he was wholly unequal. Ideas, 
tike ghosts (according to the common notion of ghosts), 
mu 4 be spoken to a little before they will explain 


Z46 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


themselves; and Toots had long left off asking any 
questions of his own mind. Some mist there may have 
been, issuing from that leaden casket, his cranium, 
which, if it could have taken shape and form, would 
have become a genie; but it could not; and it only 
so far followed the example of the smoke in the Ara- 
bian story, as to roll out in a thick cloud, and there 
tiang and hover. But it left a little figure visible upon 
a lonely shore, and Toots was always staring at it. 

“How are you?” he would say to Paul fifty times 
a day. “ Quite well, sir, thank you,” Paul would an- 
swer. “ Shake hands, ” would be Toots’s next advance. 

Which Paul, of course, would immediately do. Mr. 
Toots generally said again, after a long interval of 
staring and hard breathing, “ How are you ? ” To 
which Paul again replied, “ Quite well, sir, thank you.” 

One evening Mr. Toots was sitting at his desk, op- 
pressed by correspondence, when a great purpose seemed 
to flash upon him. He laid down his pen, and went off 
to seek Paul, whom he found at last, after a long search, 
looking through the window of his little bedroom. 

“ I say ! ” cried Toots, speaking the moment he en 
tered the room, lest he should forget it ; “ what do you 
think about ? ” 

“ Oh ! I think about a great many things,” replied 
Paul. 

“ Do you, though ? ” said Toots, appearing to consider 
.hat fact in itself surprising. 

“ If you had to die,” said Paul, looking up into his 
face — Mr. Toots started, and seemed much disturbed. 

— “ Don’t you think you would rather die on a moon- 
fight night when the sky was quite clear, and the wind 
blowing, as it did la t night ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


247 


Mr. Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shak- 
ing his head, that he didn’t know about that. 

“Not blowing, at least, ’ said Paul, “but sounding in 
the air like the sea sounds in the shells. It was a 
beautiful night. When I had listened to the water for 
a long time, I got up and looked out. There was a 
boat over there, in the full light of the moon ; a boat 
with a sail.” 

The child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so 
earnestly, that Mr. Toots, feeling himself called upon 
to say something about this boat, said, “ Smugglers.” 
But with an impartial remembrance of there being two 
sides to every question, he added, “ or Preventive.” 

“A boat with a sail,” repeated Paul, “in the full light 
of the moon. The sail like an arm, all silver. It went 
away into the distance, and what do you think it seemed 
to do as it moved with the waves ? ” 

“Pitch,” said Mr. Toots. 

“ It seemed to beckon,” said the child, “ to beckon 
me to come ! — There she is ! There she is ! ” 

Toots was almost beside himself with dismay at this 
sudden exclamation, after what had gone before, and 
cried “ Who ? ” 

“ My sister Florence ! ” cried Paul, “ looking up here, 
and waving her hand. She sees me — she sees me ! 
Grood-night, dear, good-night, good-night.” 

His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, 
as he stood at his window, kissing and clapping his 
hands : and the way in which the light retreated from 
his features as she passed out of his view, and left a 
patient melancholy on the little face : were too remark- 
able wholly to escape even Toots’s notice. Their in- 
terview being interrupted at this moment by a visit 


248 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


from Mrs. Pipchin, who usually brought her black skirts 
to bear upon Paul just before dusk, once or twice a 
week, Toots had no opportunity of improving the occa- 
sion ; but it left so marked an impression on his mind, 
that he twice returned, after having exchanged the usual 
salutations, to ask Mrs. Pipchin how she did. This the 
irascible old lady conceived to be a deeply-devised and 
long-meditated insult, originating in the diabolical inien 
tion of the weak-eyed young man down-stairs, against 
whom she accordingly lodged a formal complaint with 
Doctor Blimber that very night ; who mentioned to 
the young man that if he ever did it again, he should 
be obliged to part with him. 

The evenings being longer now, Paul stole up to 
his window every evening to look out for Florence. 
She always passed and repassed at a certain time, until 
she saw him; and their mutual recognition was a gleam 
of sunshine in Paul’s daily life. Often after dark, one 
other figure walked alone before the doctor’s house. 
He rarely joined them on the Saturday now. He 
could not bear it. He would rather come unrecog- 
nized, and look up at the windows where his son was 
qualifying for a man ; and wait, and watch, and plan, 
and hope. 

Oh ! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, 
the slight spare boy above, watching the waves and 
clouds at twilight, with his earnest eyes, and breasting 
the window of his solitary cage when birds flew by, 
as if he would have emulated them, and soared awav 1 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


2 'll* 


CHAPTER XIII. 

SHIPPING INTELLIGENCE AND OFFICE BUSINESS. 

Mr. Dombey’ s offices were in a court where there was 
an old-established stall of choice fruit at the corner: 
where perambulating merchants, of both sexes,, offered 
for sale at any time between the hours of ten and five, 
slippers, pocket-books, sponges, dogs’ collars, and Windsor 
soap; and sometimes a pointer or an oil-painting. 

The pointer always came that way, with a view to the 
Stock Exchange, where a sporting taste (originating 
generally in bets of new hats) is much in vogue. The 
other commodities were addressed to the general public ; 
but they were never offered by the vendors to Mr. Dom- 
bey. When he appeared, the dealers in those wares fell 
off respectfully. The principal slipper and dogs’ collar 
man — who considered himself a public character, and 
whose portrait was screwed on to an artist’s door in 
Cheapside — threw up his forefinger to the brim of his 
hat as Mr. Dombey went by. The ticket-porter, if he 
were not absent on a job, always ran officiously before, 
to open Mr. Dombey’s office-door as wide as possible, 
and hold it open, with his hat off, while he entered. 

The clerks within were not a whit behindhand in 
their demonstrations of respect. A solemn hush pre- 
vailed, as Mr. Dombey passed through the outer office. 
The wit of the Counting-House became in a moment as 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


2f>0 


mute, as (lie row of leathern fire-buckets, hanging up 
behind him. Such vapid and flat daylight as filtered 
through the ground-glass windows, and skylights, leaving 
a black sediment upon the panes, showed the books and 
papers, and the figures bending over them, enveloped 
in a studious gloom, and as much abstracted in appear- 
ance, from the world without, as if they were assembled 
at the bottom of the sea ; while a mouldy little strong 
room in the obscure perspective, where a shaded lamp 
was always burning, might have represented the cavern 
of some ocean-monster, looking on with a red eye at 
these mysteries of the deep. 

When Perch, the messenger, whose place was on a 
little bracket, like a timepiece, saw Mr. Dombey come 
in — or rather, when he felt that he was coming, for he 
had usually an instinctive sense of his approach — he 
hurried into Mr. Dombey’s room, stirred the fire, quar- 
ried fresh coals from the bowels of the coal-box, hung 
the newspaper to air upon the fender, put the chair 
ready, and the screen in its place, and was round upon 
his heel on the instant of Mr. Dombey’s entrance, to take 
his great coat and hat, and hang them up. Then Perch 
took the newspaper, and gave it a turn or two in his 
hands before the fire, and laid it, deferentially, at Mr. 
Dombey’s elbow. And so little objection had Perch to 
doing deferential in the last degree, that if he might 
have laid himself at Mr. Dombey’s feet, or might have 
called him by some such title as used to be bestowed 
upon the Caliph Haroun Alraschid, he would have been 
all the better pleased. 

As this honor would have been an innovation and 
an experiment, Perch was fain to content himself by 
expressing as well as he could, in his manner, You 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


251 


are the light of my Eyes. You are the Breath of 
my Soul. You are the commander of the Faithful 
Perch ! With this imperfect happiness to cheer him, 
he would shut the door softly, walk away on tiptoe, 
and leave his great chief to be stared at, through a 
dome-shaped window in the leads, by ugly chimney-pots 
and backs of houses, and especially by the bold window 
of a hair-cutting saloon on a first floor, where a waxen 
effigy, bald as a Mussulman in the morning, and covered 
after eleven o’clock in the day, with luxuriant hair and 
whiskers in the latest Christian fashion, showed him the 
wrong side of its head forever. 

Between Mr. Dombey and the common world, as it 
was accessible through the medium of the outer office — 
to which Mr. Dombey’s presence in his own room may 
be said to have struck like damp, or cold air — there 
were two degrees of descent. Mr. Carker in his own 
office was the first step ; Mr. Morfin, in his own office, 
was the second. Each of these gentlemen occupied a 
little chamber like a bath-room, opening from the pas- 
sage outside Mr. Dombey’s door. Mr. Carker, as Grand 
Vizier, inhabited the room that was nearest to the Sul- 
tan. Mr. Morfin, as an officer of inferior state, inhab- 
ited the room that was nearest to the clerks. 

The gentleman last mentioned was a cheerful-looking 
hazel-eyed elderly bachelor: gravely attired, as to his 
upper man, in black ; and as to his legs, in pepper and 
salt color. His dark hair was just touched here and 
there with specks of gray, as though the tread of Time 
had splashed it : and his whiskers were already white. 
He had a mighty respect for Mr. Dombey, and rendered 
him due homage ; but as he was of a genial temper 
himself, and never wholly at his ease in that stately 


252 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


presence, he was disquieted by no jealousy of the many 
conferences enjoyed by Mr. Carker, and felt a secret 
satisfaction in having duties to discharge, which rarely 
exposed him to be singled out for such distinction. He 
was a great musical amateur in his way — after busi- 
ness ; and had a paternal affection for his violoncello, 
which was once in every week transported from Isling* 
ton, his place of abode, to a certain club-room hard by 
the Bank, where quartettes of the most tormenting and 
excruciating nature were executed every Wednesday 
evening by a private party. Mr. Carker was a gentle* 
man thirty-eight or forty years old, of a florid com- 
plexion, and with two unbroken rows of glistening teeth, 
whose regularity and whiteness were quite distressing. 
It was impossible to escape the observation of them, 
for he showed them whenever he spoke ; and bore so 
wide a smile upon his countenance (a smile, however, 
very rarely, indeed, extending beyond his mouth), that 
there was something in it like the snarl of a cat. He 
affected a stiff white cravat, after the example of his 
principal, and was always closely buttoned up and tightly 
dressed. His manner towards Mr. Dombey was deeply 
conceived and perfectly expressed. He was familiar 
with him, in the very extremity of his sense of the 
distance between them. “ Mr. Dombey, to a man in 
your position from a man in mine, there is no show of 
subservience compatible with the transaction of business 
between us, that I should think sufficient. I frankly 
tell you, sir, I give it up altogether. I feel that I could 
not satisfy my own mind ; and Heaven knows, Mr. Dom- 
bey, you can afford to dispense with the endeavor/’ If 
he had carried these words about with him, printed on a 
placard, and had constantly offered it to Mr. Dombey’s 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


253 


perusal on the breast of his coat, he could not have been 
more explicit than he was. 

This was Carker the manager. Mr. Carker the junior 
Walter’s friend, was his brother ; two or three years 
older than he, but widely removed in station. The 
younger brother’s post was on the top of the official 
ladder ; the elder brother’s at the bottom. The elder 
brother, never gained a stave, or raised his foot to mount 
one. Young men passed above his head, and rose and 
rose ; but he was always at the bottom. He was quite 
resigned to occupy that low condition : never complained 
of it: and certainly never hoped to escape from it. 

“ How do you do this morning?” said Mr. Carker the 
manager, entering Mr. Dombey’s room soon after his 
arrival one day : with a bundle of papers in his hand. 

“ How do you do, Carker ? ” said Mr. Dombey, rising 
from his chair, and standing with his back to the fire. 
“ Have you anything there for me ? ” 

“ I don’t know that I need trouble you,” returned 
Carker, turning over the papers in his hand. “ You 
have a committee to-day at three, you know.” 

“ And one at three, three quarters,” added Mr. Dom- 
bey. 

“ Catch you forgetting anything ! ” exclaimed Carker, 
still turning over his papers. “ If Mr. Paul inherits 
your memory, he’ll be a troublesome customer in the 
House. One of you is enough.” 

“You have an accurate memory of your own,” said 
Mr. Dombey. 

“ Oh ! /” returned the manager. “ It’s the only 
capital of a man like me.” 

Mr. Dombey did not look less pompous or at all dis- 
pleased, as he stood leaning against the chimney-piece, 


254 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


surveying his (of course unconscious) clerk, from head 
to foot. The stiffness and nicety of Mr. Carker’s dress, 
and a certain arrogance of manner, either natural to 
him or imitated from a pattern not far off, gave great 
additional effect to his humility. He seemed a man who 
would contend against the power that vanquished him, 
if he could, but who was utterly borne down by the 
greatness and superiority of Mr. Dombey. 

“ Is Morfin here ? ” asked Mr. Dombey after a short 
pause, during which Mr. Carker had been fluttering his 
papers, and muttering little abstracts of their contents to 
himself. 

“ Morfin’s here,” he answered, looking up with his 
widest and most sudden smile ; “ humming musical rec- 
ollections — of his last night’s quartette party, I suppose 
— through the walls between us, and driving me half 
mad. I wish he’d make a bonfire of his violoncello, and 
burn his music-books in it.” 

“ You respect nobody, Carker, I think,” said Mr. 
Dombey. 

“ No ? ” inquired Carker, with another wide and most 
feline show of his teeth. “ Well ! Not many people I 
believe. I wouldn’t answer, perhaps,” he murmured, as 
if he were only thinking it, “ for more than one.” 

A dangerous quality, if real ; and a not less danger- 
ous one, if feigned. But Mr. Dombey hardly seemed 
to think so, as he still stood with his back to the fire, 
drawn up to his full height, and looking at his head- 
clerk with a dignified composure, in which there seemed 
to lurk a stronger latent sense of power than usual. 

“ Talking of Morfin,” resumed Mr. Carker, taking out 
one paper from the rest, “ he reports a junior dead in 
the agency at Barbadoes, and proposes to reserve a pas- 


DOMBEY AND SON- 


255 


sage in the Son and Heir — she’ll sail in a month or so 
— fjr the successor. You don’t care who goes, I sup- 
pose ? We have nobody of that sort here.” 

Mr. Dombey shook his head with supreme indiffer- 
ence. 

“ It’s no very precious appointment,” observed Mr 
Carker, taking up a pen, with which to indorse a mem- 
orandum on the back of the paper. “I hope he may 
bestow it on some orphan nephew of a musical friend. 
It may perhaps stop his fiddle-playing, if he has a gift 
that way. Who’s that ? Come in ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Carker. I didn’t know you 
were here, sir,” answered Walter, appearing with some 
letters in his hand, unopened, and newly arrived. “ Mr. 
Carker the junior, sir ” — 

At the mention of this name, Mr. Carker the man- 
ager was, or affected to be, touched to the quick with 
shame and humiliation. He cast, his eyes full on Mr. 
Dombey with an altered and apologetic look, abased 
them on the ground, and remained for a moment with- 
out speaking. 

“ I thought, sir,” he said suddenly and angrily, turn- 
ing on Walter, “ that you had been before requested not 
to drag Mr. Carker the junior into your conversation.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” returned Walter. “ I was only 
going to say that Mr. Carker the junior had told me he 
believed you were gone out, or I should not have knocked 
at the door when you were engaged with Mr. Dombey 
These are letters for Mr. Dombey, sir.” 

“ Very well, sir,” returned Mr. Carker the manager, 
plucking them sharply from his hand. “ Go about your 
business.” 

But in taking them with so little ceremony, Mr. Car- 


256 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ker dropped one on the floor, and did not see what he 
had done ; neither did Mr. Dombey observe the letter 
lying near his feet. Walter hesitated for a moment, 
thinking that one or other of them would notice it ; but 
finding that neither did, he stopped, came back, picked 
it up, and laid it himself on Mr. Dombey’s desk. The 
letters were post-letters ; and it happened that the one 
in question was Mrs. Pipchin’s regular report, directed 
as usual — for Mrs. Pipchin was but an indifferent pen- 
woman — by Florence. Mr. Dombey having his atten- 
tion silently called to this letter by Walter, started, and 
looked fiercely at him, as if he believed that he had 
purposely selected it from all the rest. 

“ You can leave the room, sir ! ” said Mr. Dombey, 
haughtily. 

He crushed the letter in his hand; and having watched 
Walter out at the door, put it in his pocket without 
breaking the seal. 

44 You want somebody to send to the West Indies, 
you were saying,” observed Mr. Dombey, hurriedly. 

44 Yes,” replied Carker. 

44 Send young Gay.” 

“ Good, very good indeed. Nothing easier,” said Mr. 
Carker, without any show of surprise, and taking up the 
pen to reindorse the letter, as coolly as he had done be- 
fore. “ 4 Send young Gay/ ” 

44 Call him back,” said Mr. Dombey. 

Mr. Carker was quick to do so, and Walter was quick 
to return. 

44 Gay,” said Mr. Dombey, turning a little to look at 
him over his shoulder. 44 Here is a ” — 

46 An opening,” said Mr. Carker, with his mouth 
stretched to the utmost. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


257 


“In the West Indies. At Barbadoes. I am going to 
send you,” said Mr. Dombey, scorning to embellish the 
bare truth, “ to fill a junior situation in the counting- 
house at Barbadoes. Let your uncle know from me, 

I hat I have chosen you to go to the West Indies.” 

Walter’s breath was so completely taken away by his 
astonishment, that he could hardly find enough for the 
repetition of the words “ West Indies.” 

“ Somebody must go,” said Mr. Dombey, “ and you 
are young and healthy, and your uncle’s circumstances 
are not good. Tell your uncle that you are appointed. 
You will not go yet. There will be an interval of a 
month — or two perhaps.” 

“ Shall I remain there, sir ? ” inquired Walter. 

“ Will you remain there, sir ! ” repeated Mr. Dombey, 
turning a little more round towards him. “ What do 
you mean ? What does he mean, Carker ? ” 

“ Live there, sir,” faltered Walter. 

“ Certainly,” returned Mr. Dombey. 

Walter bowed. 

“ That’s all,” said Mr. Dombey, resuming his letters. 
“ You will explain to him in good time about the usual 
outfit and so forth, Carker, of course. He needn’t wait, 
Carker.” 

“ You needn’t wait, Gay,” observed Mr. Carker : bare 
to the gums. 

“ Unless,” said Mr. Dombey, stopping in his reading 
without looking off the letter, and seeming to listen. 
f< Unless he has anything to say.” 

“ No, sir,” returned Walter, agitated and confused, and 
almost stunned, as an infinite variety of pictures pre- 
sented themselves to his mind ; among which Captain 
Cuttle, in his glazed hat, transfixed with astonishment 

VOL. i. 17 


258 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


at Mrs. MacStinger’s, and his uncle bemoaning his loss 
in the little back-parlor, held prominent places. “ I 
hardly know — I — I am much obliged, sir.” 

“ He needn’t wait, Carker,” said Mr. Dombey. 

And as Mr. Carker again echoed the words, and also 
collected his papers as if he were going away too, 
Walter felt that his lingering any longer would be an 
unpardonable intrusion — especially as he had nothing 
to say — and therefore walked out quite confounded. 

Going along the passage, with the mingled conscious- 
ness and helplessness of a dream, he heard Mr. Dom- 
bey’s door shut again, as Mr. Carker came out : and 
immediately afterwards that gentleman called to him. 

“ Bring your friend Mr. Carker the junior to my 
room, sir, if you please.” 

Walter went to the outer office and apprised Mr. 
Carker the junior of his errand, who accordingly came 
out from behind a partition where he sat alone in one 
corner, and returned with him to the room of Mr. Car- 
ker the manager. 

That gentleman was standing with his back to the 
fire, and his hands under his coat-tails, looking over 
his white cravat, as unpromisingly as Mr. Dombey him- 
self could have looked. He received them without any 
change in his attitude or softening of his harsh and 
black expression : merely signing to Walter to fiose 
the door. 

“ John Carker,” said the manager, when this was done, 
turning suddenly upon his brother, with his two rows of 
teeth bristling as if he would have bitten him, “ what 
is the league between you and this young man, in vir- 
tue of which I am haunted and hunted by the mention 
of your name ? Is it not enough for you, John Carker, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


259 


that I am your near relation and can’t detach mysgjf 
from that ” — 

“ Say disgrace, James,” interposed the other in a low 
voice, finding that he stammered for a word. “ You 
mean it, and have reason, say disgrace.” 

“ From that disgrace,” assented his brother, with keen 
emphasis, “ but is the fact to be blurted out and trump- 
eted, and proclaimed continually in the presence of the 
very House ! In moments of confidence too ? Do you 
think your name is calculated to harmonize in this place 
with trust and confidence, John Carker ? ” 

“ No,” returned the other. “ No, James. God knows 
I have no such thought.” 

“ What is your thought, then ? ” said his brother, “ and 
why do you thrust yourself in my way ? Haven’t you 
injured me enough already ? ” 

66 1 have never injured you, James, wilfully.” 

“You are my brother,” said the manager. u That’s 
injury enough.” 

“ I wish I could undo it, James.” 

“ I wish you could and would.” 

During this conversation, Walter had looked from one 
brother to the other, with pain and amazement. He 
who was the senior in years, and junior in the house, 
stood, with his eyes cast upon the ground, and his head 
bowed, humbly listening to the reproaches of the other. 
Though these were rendered very bitter by the tone and 
look with which they were accompanied, and by the 
presence of Walter whom they so much surprised and 
shocked, he entered no other protest against them than 
by slightly raising his right hand in a deprecatory man- 
ner, as if he would have said “ Spare me ! ” So, had 
they been blows, and he a brave man, under strong 


200 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


restraint, and weakened by bodily suffering, he might 
have stood before the executioner. 

Generous and quick in all his emotions, and regarding 
himself as the innocent occasion of these taunts, Walter 
now struck in, with all the earnestness he felt. 

“ Mr. Carker,” he said, addressing himself to the man- 
ager. “ Indeed, indeed, this is my fault solely. In a 
kind of heedlessness for which I cannot blame myself 
enough, I have, I have no doubt, mentioned Mr. Carker 
the junior much oftener than was necessary; and have 
allowed his name sometimes to slip through my lips, 
when it was against your express wish. But it has been 
my own mistake, sir. We have never exchanged one 
word upon the subject — very few, indeed, on any sub- 
ject. And it has not been,” added Walter, after a mo- 
ment’s pause, u all heedlessness on my part, sir ; for I 
have felt an interest in Mr. Carker ever since I have 
]been here, and have hardly been able to help speaking 
of him sometimes, when I have thought of him so 
much ! ” 

Walter said this from his soul, and with the very 
breath of honor. For he looked upon the bowed head, 
and the downcast eyes, and upraised hand, and thought, 
“ I have felt it ; and why should I not avow it in behalf 
of this unfriended, broken man ! ” 

“ In truth you have avoided me, Mr. Carker,” said 
Walter, with the tears rising to his eyes ; so true was 
his compassion. “ I know it, to my disappointment and 
regret. When I first came here, and ever since, I am 
sure I have tried to be as much your friend as one of 
my age could presume to be ; but it has been of no use.” 

“ And observe,” said the manager, taking him up 
quickly, “ it will be of still less use, Gay, if you persist 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


261 


in forcing Mr. John Carker’s name on people’s attention. 
That is not the way to befriend Mr. John Carker. Ask 
him if he thinks it is.” 

“It is no service to me,” said the brother. “ It only 
leads to such a conversation as the present, which I need 
not say I could have well spared. No one can be a bet- 
ter friend to me : ” he spoke here very distinctly, as if 
he would impress it upon Walter: “than in forgetting 
me, and leaving me to go my way, unquestioned and un- 
noticed.” 

“ Your memory not being retentive, Gay, of what you 
are told by others,” said Mr. Carker the manager, warm- 
ing himself with great and increased satisfaction, “ I 
thought it well that you should be told this from the 
best authority,” nodding towards his brother. “ You are 
not likely to forget it now, I hope. That’s all, Gay. 
You can go.” 

Walter passed out at the door, and was about to close 
it after him, when hearing the voices of the brothers 
again, and also the mention of his own name, he stood 
irresolutely, with his hand upon the lock, and the door 
ajar, uncertain whether to return or go away. In this 
position he could not help overhearing what followed. 

“ Think of me more leniently, if you can, James,” 
said John Carker, “ when I tell you I have had — how 
could I help having, with my history, written here ” — 
striking himself upon the breast, “ my whole heart 
awakened by my observation of that boy, Walter Gay. 
I saw in him when he first came here, almost my other 
self.” 

“Your other self!” repeated the manager, disdain- 
fully. 

“ Not as I a n, but as I was when I first came here 


262 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


too; as sanguine, giddy, youthful, inexperienced; flushed 
with the same restless and adventurous fancies ; and full 
of the same qualities, fraught with the same capacity of 
leading on to good or evil.” 

“ I hope not,” said his brother, with some hidden and 
sarcastic meaning in his tone. 

“ You strike me sharply ; and your hand is steady, 
and your thrust is very deep,” returned the other, speak- 
ing (or so Walter thought) as if some cruel weapon 
actually stabbed him as he spoke. “ I imagined all this 
when he was a boy. I believed it. It was a truth to 
me. I saw him lightly walking on the edge of an un- 
seen gulf where so many others walk with equal gayety, 
and from which ” — 

“ The old excuse,” interrupted his brother as he 
stirred the fire. “ So many. Go on. Say, so many 
fall.” 

“ From which one traveller fell,” returned the other, 
“ who set forward, on his way, a boy like him, and missed 
his footing more and more, and slipped a little and a lit- 
tle lower, and went on stumbling still, until he fell head- 
long, and found himself below a shattered man. Think 
what I suffered when I watched that boy.” 

“ You have only yourself to thank for it,” returned 
the brother. 

“ Only myself,” he assented with a sigh. “ I don’t 
seek to divide the blame or shame.” 

“You have divided the shame,” James Carker mut- 
tered through his teeth. And through so many and 
such close teeth, he could mutter well. 

“ Ah James,” returned his brother, speaking for the 
first time in an accent of reproach, and seeming, by the 
sound of his voice, to have covered Ids face with his 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


263 


hands, “I have been, since then, a useful foil to you 
You have trodden on me freely, in your climbing up. 
Don’t spurn me with your heel ! ” 

A silence ensued. After a time, Mr. Carker the man- 
ager was heard rustling among his papers, as if he had 
resolved to bring the interview to a conclusion. At the 
same time his brother withdrew nearer to the door. 

u That’s all,” he said. “ I watched him with such 
trembling and such fear, as was some little punishment 
to m3, until he passed the place where I first fell; and 
then, though I had been his father, I believe I never 
could have thanked God more devoutly. I didn’t dare 
to warn him, and advise him ; but if 1 had seen direct 
cause, I would have shown him my example. I was 
afraid to be seen speaking with him, lest it should be 
thought I did him harm, and tempted him to evil, and 
corrupted him : or lest I really should. There may be 
such contagion in me ; I don’t know. Piece out my his- 
tory, in connection with young Walter Gay, and what 
he has made me feel j and think of me more leniently, 
James, if you can.” 

With these words he came out to where Walter was 
standing. He turned a little paler when he saw him 
there, and paler yet when Walter caught him by the 
hand, and said in a whisper : 

“ Mr. Carker, pray let me thank you ! Let me say 
how much I feel. for you! How sorry I am to have 
been the unhappy cause of all this ! How I almost look 
jpon you now as my protector and guardian ! Hjw 
very, very much, I feel obliged to you and pity you !” 
said Walter, squeezing both his hands, and hardly know- 
ing, in his agitation, what he did or said. 

Mr. Morfin’s room being close at hand and empty, and 


264 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the door wide open, they moved thither by one accord : 
the passage being seldom free from some one passing to 
or fro. When they were there, and Walter saw in Mr. 
Carker’s face some traces of the emotion within, he al- 
most felt as if he had never seen the face before ; it was 
so greatly changed. 

“ Walter,” he said, laying his hand on his shoulder* 
u 1 am far removed from you, and may I ever be. Do 
you know what I am ? ” 

“ What you are ! ” appeared to hang on Walter’s lips, 
as he regarded him attentively. 

“ It was begun,” said Carker, “ before my twenty-first 
birthday — led up to, long before, but not begun till 
near that time. I had robbed them when I came of age. 
I robbed them afterwards. Before my twenty-second 
birthday, it was all found out; and then, Walter, from 
all men’s society, I died.” 

Again his last few words hung trembling upon Wal- 
ter’s lips, but he could neither utter them, nor any of his 
own. 

“ The House was very good to me. May Heaven re- 
ward the old man for his forbearance ! This one, too, 
his son, who was then newly in the firm, where I had 
held great trust ! I was called into that room which is 
now his — I have never entered it since — and came out 
what you know me. For many years I sat in my pres- 
ent seat, alone as now, but then a known and recognized 
example to the rest. They were all merciful to me, and 
I lived. Time has altered that part of my poor expi- 
ation ; and I think, except the three heads of the House, 
there is no one here who knows my story rightly. Be- 
fore the little boy grows up, and has it told to him, my 
corner may be vacant. I would rather that it might be 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


265 


so ! This is the only change to me since that day, when 
I left all youth, and hope, and good men’s company, be- 
hind me in that room. God bless you, Walter ! Keep 
you, and all dear to you, in honesty, or strike them 
dead ! ” 

Some recollection of his trembling from head to foot 
as if with excessive cold, and of his bursting into tears, 
was all that Walter could add to this, when he tried to 
recall exactly what had passed between them. 

When Walter saw him next, he was bending over his 
desk, in his old silent, drooping, humbled way. Then, 
observing him at his work, and feeling how resolved he 
evidently was that no further intercourse should arise 
between them, and thinking “again and again on all he 
had seen and heard that morning in so short a time, in 
connection with the history of both the Carkers, Walter 
could hardly believe that he was under orders for the 
West Indies, and would soon be lost to Uncle Sol, and 
Captain Cuttle, and to glimpses few and far between of 
Florence Dombey — no, he meant Paul — and to all he 
loved, and liked, and looked for, in his daily life. 

But it was true, and the news had already penetrated 
to the outer office ; for while he sat with a heavy heart, 
pondering on these things, and resting his head upon his 
arm, Perch, the messenger, descending from his ma- 
hogany bracket, and jogging his elbow, begged his par- 
don, but wished to say in his ear, Did he think he could 
arrange to send home to England a jar of preserved 
ginger, cheap, for Mrs. Perch’s own eating, in the course 
af her recovery from her next confinement ? 


266 


DOMBEY AND SON 


CHAPTER XIV. 

I AUl GROWS MORE AND MORE OLD-FASHIONED, AND GOES 
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 

When the Midsummer vacation approached, no inde- 
cent manifestations of joy were exhibited by the leaden- 
eyed young gentlemen assembled at Doctor Blimber’s. 
Any such violent expression as “ breaking up,” would 
have been quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. 
The young gentlemen oozed away, semiannually, to 
their own homes ; but they never broke up. They 
would have scorned the action. 

Tozer, who was constantly galled and tormented by a 
starched white cambric neckerchief, which he wore at 
the express desire of Mrs. Tozer, his parent, who, de- 
signing him for the Church, was of opinion that he 
couldn’t be in that forward state of preparation too soon 
— Tozer said, indeed, that choosing between two evils, 
he thought he would rather stay where he was than go 
home. However inconsistent this declaration might ap- 
pear with that passage in Tozer’s Essay on the subject, 
wherein he had observed “ that the thoughts of home 
and all its recollections, awakened in his mind the most 
pleasing emotions of anticipation and delight,” and had 
also likened himself to a Roman general, flushed with a 
recent victory over the Iceni, or laden with Carthaginian 
spoil, advancing within a few hours’ march of the Capi- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


267 


iol, presupposed, for the purposes of the simile, to be the 
dwelling-place of Mrs. Tozer, still it was very sincerely 
made. For it seemed that Tozer had a dreadful uncle, 
who not only volunteered examinations of him, in the 
holidays, on abstruse points, but twisted innocent events 
and things, and wrenched them to the same fell purpose. 
So that if this uncle took him to the play, or, on a simi- 
lar pretence of kindness, carried him to see a giant, or a 
dwarf, or a conjurer, or anything, Tozer knew he had 
read up some classical allusion to the subject beforehand, 
and was thrown into a state of mortal apprehension : not 
foreseeing where he might break out, or wdiat authority 
he might not quote against him. 

As to Briggs, his father made no show of artifice about 
it. He never would leave him alone. So numerous and 
severe were the mental trials of that unfortunate youth 
in vacation time, that the friends of the family (then 
resident near Bayswater, London) seldom approached 
the ornamental piece of water in Kensington Gardens, 
without a vague expectation of seeing Master Briggs’s 
hat floating on the surface, and an unfinished exercise 
lying on the bank. Briggs, therefore, was not at all 
sanguine on the subject of holidays ; and these two 
sharers of little Paul’s bedroom were so fair a sample of 
the young gentlemen in general, that the most elastic 
among them contemplated the arrival of those festive 
periods with genteel resignation. 

It was far otherwise with little Paul. The end of 
these first holidays was to witness his separation from 
Plorence, but who ever looked forward to the end of 
holidays whose beginning was not yet come J Not Paul, 
assuredly. As the happy time drew near, the lions and 
tigers climbing up the bedroom walls, became quite tame 


268 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and frolicsome. The grim sly faces in the squares and 
diamonds of the floor-cloth, relaxed and peeped out at him 
with less wicked eyes. The grave old clock had more of 
personal interest in the tone of its formal inquiry , and 
the restless sea went rolling on all night, to the sound- 
ing of a melancholy strain — yet it was pleasant too — • 
that rose and fell with the waves, and rocked him, as it 
were, to sleep. 

Mr. Feeder, B. A., seemed to think that he, too, would 
enjoy the holidays very much. Mr. Toots projected a 
life of holidays from that time forth ; for, as he regularly 
informed Paul every day, it was his “ last half ” at Doc- 
tor Blimber’s, and he was going to begin to come into 
his property directly. 

It was perfectly understood between Paul and Mr. 
Toots, that they were intimate friends, notwithstanding 
their distance in point of years and station. As the 
vacation approached, and Mr. Toots breathed harder 
and stared oftener in Paul’s society, than he had done 
before, Paul knew that he meant he was sorry they 
were going to lose sight of each other, and felt very 
much obliged to him for his patronage and good opinion. 

It was even understood by Doctor Blimber, Mrs. 
Blimber, and Miss Blimber, as well as by the young 
gentlemen in general, that Toots had somehow consti- 
tuted himself protector and guardian of Dombey, and 
the circumstance became so notorious, even to Mrs. 
Pipchin, that the good old creature cherished feelings 
of bitterness and jealousy against Toots ; and, in the 
sanctuary of her own home, repeatedly denounced him 
as “a chuckleheaded noodle.” Whereas the innocent 
Toots had no more idea of awakening Mrs. Pipchin’s 
wrath, than he had of any other definite possibility or 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


269 


proposition. On the contrary, he was disposed to con- 
sider her rather a remarkable character, with many 
points of interest about her. For this reason he smiled 
on her with so much urbanity, and asked her how she 
did, so often, in the course of her visits to little Paul, 
that at last she one night told him plainly, she wasn’t 
used to it, whatever he might think ; and she could not, 
and she would not bear it, either from himself or any 
other puppy then existing : at which unexpected ac- 
knowledgment of his civilities, Mr. Toots was so alarmed 
that he secreted himself in a retired spot until she had 
gone. Nor did he ever again face the doughty Mrs. 
Pipchin, under Doctor Blimber’s roof. 

They were within two or three weeks of the holidays, 
when, one day, Cornelia Blimber called Paul into her 
room, and said, “ Dombey, I am going to send home 
your analysis.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” returned Paul. 

“ You know what I mean, do you, Dombey ? ” in- 
quired Miss Blimber, looking hard at him through the 
spectacles. 

“No, ma’am,” said Paul. 

“ Dombey, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, “ I begin to 
be afraid you are a sad boy. When you don’t know the 
meaning of an expression, why don’t you seek for infor- 
mation ? ” 

“ Mrs. Pipchin told me I wasn’t to ask questions,” re- 
turned Paul. 

“ I must beg you not to mention Mrs. Pipchin to me, 
on any account, Dombey,” returned Miss Blimber. “ I 
couldn’t think of allowing it. The course of study here, 
is very far removed from anything of that sort. A repe- 
tition of such allusions would make it necessary for me 


270 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to request to hear without a mistake, before breakfast 
time to-morrow morning, from Verbum 'personate down 
to simillima cygnoT 

44 I didn’t mean, ma’am,’’ began little Paul. 

“ I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn’t 
mean, if you please, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, who 
preserved an awful politeness in her admonitions. 
“ That is a line of argument, I couldn’t dream of per- 
mitting.” 

Paul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only 
looked at Miss Blimber’s spectacles. Miss Blimber hav- 
ing shaken her head at him gravely, referred to a paper 
lying before her. 

“ 4 Analysis of the character of P. Dombey.’ If my 
recollection serves me,” said Miss Blimber breaking off, 
“ the word analysis as opposed to synthesis, is thus de 
fined by Walker 4 The resolution of an object, whether 
of the senses or of the intellect, into its first elements.’ 
As opposed to synthesis, you observe. Now you know 
what analysis is, Dombey.” 

Dombey didn’t seem to be absolutely blinded by the 
light let in upon his intellect, but he made Miss Blimber 
a little bow. 

44 4 Analysis ’ resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye 
over the paper, 4 of the character of P. Dombey.’ I 
find that the natural capacity of Dombey is extremely 
good ; and that his general disposition to study may be 
stated in an equal ratio. Thus, taking eight as our 
standard and highest number, I find these qualities in 
Dombey stated each at six three-fourths ! ” 

Miss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this 
news. Being undecided whether six three-fourths, meant 
six pounds fifteen, or sixpence three farthings, or six foot 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


271 


three, or three quarters past six, or six somethings that 
he hadn’t learnt yet, with three unknown something elses 
over, Paul rubbed his hands and looked straight at 
Miss Blimber. It happened to answer as well as 
anything else he could have done ; and Cornelia pro- 
ceeded. 

44 4 Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low 
company, as evinced in the case of a person named 
Glubb, originally seven, but since reduced. Gentle- 
manly demeanor four, and improving with advancing 
years.’ Now what I particularly wish to call your at- 
tention to, Dombey, is the general observation at the 
close of* this analysis.” 

Paul set himself to follow it with great care. 

“ 4 It may be generally observed of Dombey,’ ” sail 
Miss Blimber, reading in a loud voice, and at every 
second word directing her spectacles towards the little 
figure before her : “ ‘ that his abilities and inclinations 
are good, and that he has made as much progress as 
under the circumstances could have been expected. 
But it is to be lamented of this young gentleman that 
he is singular (what is usually termed old-fashioned) in 
his character and conduct, and that, without presenting 
anything in either which distinctly calls for reprobation, 
he is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his 
age and social position.’ Now Dombey,” said Miss 
Blimber, laying down the paper, 44 do you understand 
that ? ” 

44 1 think I do, ma’am,” said Paul. 

44 This analysis, you see, Dombey,” Miss Blimber 
eontinutd, 44 is going to be sent home to your respected 
parent. It will naturally be very painful to him to find 
that you are singular in your character and conduct* It 


272 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


is naturally painful to us ; for we can’t like you, you 
know, Dombey, as well as we could wish.” 

She touched the child upon a tender point. He had 
secretly become more and more solicitous from day to 
day, as the time of his departure drew more near, that 
all the house should like him. For some hidden rea- 
son, very imperfectly understood by himself — if under- 
stood at all — he felt a gradually increasing impulse of 
affection, towards almost everything and everybody in 
the place. He could not bear to think that they would 
be quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He 
wanted them to remember him kindly ; and he had 
made it his business even to conciliate a great? hoarse 
shaggy dog, chained up at the back of the house, who 
had previously been the terror of his life : that even 
he might miss him when he was no longer there. 

Little thinking that in this, he only showed again the 
difference between himself and his compeers, poor tiny 
Paul set it forth to Miss Blimber as well as he could, 
and begged her, in despite of the official analysis, to 
have the goodness to try and like him. To Mrs. Blim- 
ber, who had joined them, he preferred the same peti- 
tion : and when that lady could not forbear, even in his 
presence, from giving utterance to her often-repeated 
opinion, that he was an odd child, Paul told her that 
he was sure she was quite right ; that he thought it 
must be his bones, but he didn’t know ; and that he 
hoped she would overlook it, for he was fond of them 
all. 

“ Not so fond,” said Paul, with a mixture of timid- 
ity and perfect frankness, which was one of the most 
peculiar and most engaging qualities of the child, 
“ not so fond as I am of Florence, of course ; that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


273 


could never be. You couldn’t expect that, could you 
ma’am?” 

“ Oh ! the old-fashioned little soul ! ” cried Mrs. Blim- 
ber, in a whisper. 

“ But I like everybody here very much,” pursued 
Paul, “ and I should grieve to go away, and think tha 
any one was glad that I was gone, or didn’t care.” 

Mrs. Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the 
oddest child in the world ; and when she told the doctor, 
what had passed, the doctor did not controvert his wife's 
opinion. But he said, as he had said before, when Paul 
first came, that study would do much ; and he also said, 
as he had said on that occasion, “ Bring him on, Cor- 
nelia ! Bring him on ! ” 

Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously 
as she could ; and Paul had had a hard life of it. But 
over and above the getting through his tasks, he had 
long had another purpose always present to him, and 
to which he still held fast. It was, to be a gentle, use- 
ful, quiet little fellow, always striving to secure the love 
and attachment of the rest; and though he was yet 
often to be seen at his old post on the stairs, or watch- 
ing the waves and clouds from his solitary window, he 
was oftener found, too, among the other boys, modestly 
rendering them some little voluntary service. Thus it 
came to pass, that even among those rigid and absorbed 
young anchorites, who mortified themselves beneath the 
roof of Doctor Blimber, Paul was an object of general 
interest; a fragile little plaything that they all liked, and 
that no one would have thought of treating roughly. But 
he could not change his nature or rewrite the analysis 
and so they all agreed that Dombey was old-fashioned. 

There were some immunities, however, attaching to 

VOL. i. 18 


274 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the character enjoyed by no one else. They could have 
better spared a newer-fashioned child, and that alone 
was much. When the others only bowed to Doctor 
Blimber and family on retiring for the night, Paul 
would stretch out his morsel of a hand, and boldly shake 
the Doctor’s ; also Mrs. Blimber’s ; also Cornelia’s. If 
anybody was to be begged off from impending punish- 
ment, Paul was always the delegate. The weak-eyed 
young man himself had once consulted him, in reference 
to a little breakage of glass and china. And it was 
darkly rumored that the butler, regarding him with fa- 
vor such as that stern man had never shown before to 
mortal boy, had sometimes mingled porter with his table- 
beer to make him strong. 

Over and above these extensive privileges, Paul had 
free right of entry to Mr. Feeder’s room, from which 
apartment he had twdce led Mr. Toots into the open air 
in a state of faintness, consequent on an unsuccessful 
attempt to smoke a very blunt cigar : one of a bundle 
which that young gentleman had covertly purchased on 
the shingle from a most desperate smuggler, who had 
acknowledged, in confidence, that tw r o hundred pounds 
was the price set upon his head, dead or alive, by the 
Custom House. It was a snug room, Mr. Feeder’s, 
with his bed in another little room inside of it ; and a 
flute, which Mr. Feeder couldn’t play yet, but was going 
to make a point of learning, he said, hanging up over 
the fireplace. There were some books in it, too, and a 
fishing-rod ; for Mr. Feeder said he should certainly 
make a point of learning to fish, when he could find 
time. Mr. Feeder had amassed, with similar intentions, 
a beautiful little curly second-hand key-bugle, a chess- 
board and men, a Spanish Grammar, a set of sketching 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


275 


materials, and a pair of boxing-gloves. The art of 
self-defence Mr. Feeder said he should undoubtedly make 
a point of learning, as he considered it the duty of every 
man to do ; for it might lead to the protection of a fe- 
male in distress. 

But Mr. Feeder’s great possession was a large green 
jar of snuff, which Mr. Toots had brought down as a 
present, at the close of the last vacation ; and for which 
he had paid a high price, as having been the genuine 
property of the Prince Regent. Neither Mr. Toots nor 
Mr. Feeder could partake of this or any other snuff, 
even in the most stinted and moderate degree, without 
bein" seized with convulsions of sneezing. Neverthe- 
less it was their great delight to moisten a box-full with 
cold tea, stir it up on a piece of parchment with a pa- 
per-knife, and devote themselves to its consumption then 
and there. In the course of which cramming of their 
noses, they endured surprising torments with the con- 
stancy of martyrs : and drinking table-beer at intervals, 
felt all the glories of dissipation. 

To little Paul sitting silent in their company, and by 
the side of his chief patron, Mr. Toots, there was a 
dread charm in these reckless occasions ; and when Mr. 
Feeder spoke of the dark mysteries of London, and 
told Mr. Toots that he was going to observe it himself 
closely in all its ramifications in the approaching holi- 
days, and for that purpose had made arrangements to 
board with two old maiden ladies at Peckham, Paul 
regarded him as if he were the hero of some book of 
travels or wild adventure, and was almost afraid of such 
a slashing person. 

Going into this room one evening, when the holidays 
were very near, Paul found Mr. Feeder filling up the 


276 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


blanks in some printed letters, while some others, already 
filled up and strewn before him, were being folded and 
sealed by Mr. Toots. Mr. Feeder said, “Aha, Dombey, 
there you are, are you ? ” — for they were always kind 
to him, and glad to see him — and then said, tossing one 
of the letters towards him, “ And there you are, too, 
Dombey. That’s yours.” 

“ Mine, sir ? ” said Paul. 

u Your invitation,” returned Mr. Feeder. 

Paul, looking at it, found, in copperplate print, with 
the exception of his own name and the date, which were 
in Mr. Feeder’s penmanship, that Doctor and Mrs. 
Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr. P. Dombey’s 
company at an early party on Wednesday evening the 
seventeenth instant ; and that the hour was half-past 
seven o’clock ; and that the object was quadrilles. Mr. 
Toots also showed him, by holding up a companion sheet 
of paper, that Doctor and Mrs. Blimber requested the 
pleasure of Mr. Toots’s company at an early party on 
Wednesday evening the seventeenth instant, when the 
hour was half-past seven o’clock, and when the object 
was quadrilles. He also found, on glancing at the table 
where Mr. Feeder sat, that the pleasure of Mr. Briggs’s 
company, and of Mr. Tozer’s company, and of every 
young gentleman’s company, was requested by Doctor 
and Mrs. Blimber on the same genteel occasion. 

Mr. Feeder then told him, to his great joy, that his 
sister was invited, and that it was a half-yearly event, 
and that, as the holidays began that day, he could go 
away with his sister after the party, if he liked, which 
Paul interrupted him to say he would like, very much. 
Mr. Feeder then gave him to understand that he would 
be expected to inform Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, in su* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


277 


perfine small-hand, that Mr. P. Dombey would be happy 
to have the honor of waiting on them, in accordance 
with their polite invitation. Lastly, Mr. Feeder said, 
he had better not refer to the festive occasion, in the 
hearing of Doctor and Mrs. Blimber ; as these prelimi- 
naries, and the whole of the arrangements, were con 
ducted on principles of classicality and high breeding , 
and that Doctor and Mrs. Blimber on the one hand, and 
the young gentlemen on the other, were supposed, in 
their scholastic capacities, not to have the least idea 
of what was in the wind. 

Paul thanked Mr. Feeder for these hints, and pocket- 
ing his invitation, sat down on a stool by the side of 
Mr. Toots as usual. But Paul’s head, which had long 
been ailing more or less, and was sometimes very heavy 
and painful, felt so uneasy that night, that he was obliged 
to support it on his hand. And yet it drooped so, that 
by little and little it sunk on Mr. Toots’s knee, and 
rested there, as if it had no care to be ever lifted up 
again. 

That was no reason why he should be deaf ; but he 
must have been, he thought, for, by and by, he heard 
Mr. Feeder calling in his ear, and gently shaking him to 
rouse his attention. And when he raised his head, quite 
scared, and looked about him, he found that Doctor 
Blimber had come into the room ; and that the window 
was open, and that his forehead was wet with sprinkled 
water ; though how all this had been done without his 
knowledge, was very curious indeed. 

“ Ah ! Come, come ! That’s well ! How is my lit- 
tle friend now ? ” said Doctor Blimber, encouragingly. 

“ Oh, quite well, thank you, sir,” said Paul. 

But there seemed to be something the matter with the 


278 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


floor, for he couldn’t stand upon it steadily ; and with the 
walls too, for they were inclined to turn round and 
round, and could only be stopped by being looked at 
very hard indeed. Mr. Toots’s head had the appearance 
of being at once bigger and farther off than was quite 
natural ; and when he took Paul in his arms, to carry 
him up-stairs, Paul observed with astonishment that the 
door was in quite a different place from that in which 
he had expected to find it, and almost thought, at first, 
that Mr. Toots was going to walk straight up the chim- 
ney. 

It was very kind of Mr. Toots to carry him to the top 
of the house so tenderly ; and Paul told him that it was. 
But Mr. Toots said he would do a great deal more than 
that, if he could ; and indeed he did more as it was ; 
for he helped Paul to undress, and helped him to bed, in 
the kindest manner possible, and then sat down by the 
bedside and chuckled very much; while Mr. Feeder, 
B. A., leaning over the bottom of the bedstead, set all 
the little bristles on his head bolt upright with his bony 
hands, and then made believe to spar at Paul with great 
science, on account of his being all right again, which 
was so uncommonly facetious, and kind too in Mr. 
Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make up his mind 
whether it was best to laugh or cry at him, did both at 
once. 

How Mr. Toots melted away, and Mr. Feeder changed 
into Mrs. Pipchin, Paul never thought of asking ; 
neither was he at all curious to know ; but when he 
saw Mrs. Pipchin standing at the bottom of the bed in- 
stead of Mr. Feeder, he cried out, “ Mrs. Pipchin, don’t 
tcU Florence ! ” 

“ Don’t tell Florence what, my little Paul ? ” said Mrs, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


279 


Pipehin, coming round to the bedside, and sitting down 
in the chair. 

“ About me,” said Paul. 

“ No, no,” said Mrs. Pipehin. 

“ What do you think I mean to do when I grow up, 
Mrs. Pipehin ? ” inquired Paul, turning his face towards 
her on his pillow, and resting his chin wistfully on his 
folded hands. 

Mrs. Pipehin couldn’t guess. 

“ I mean,” said Paul, “ to put my money all together 
in one Bank, never try to get any more, go away into 
the country with my darling Florence, have a beautiful 
garden, fields, and woods, and live there with her all my 
life ! ” 

u Indeed ! ” cried Mrs. Pipehin. 

“ Yes,” said Paul. “ That’s what I mean to do, when 
I ” — . He stopped, and pondered for a moment. 

Mrs. Pipchin’s gray eye scanned his thoughtful face. 

“ If I grow up,” said Paul. Then he went on imme- 
diately to tell Mrs. Pipehin all about the party, about 
Florence’s invitation, about the pride he would have in 
the admiration that would be felt for her by all the boys, 
about their being so kind to him and fond of him, about 
his being so fond of them, and about his being so glad 
of it. Then he told Mrs. Pipehin about the analysis, 
and about his being certainly old-fashioned, and took 
Airs. Pipchin’s opinion on that point, and whether she 
knew why it was, and what it meant. Airs. Pipehin 
denied the fact altogether, as the shortest way of getting 
out of the difficulty ; but Paul was far from satisfied 
with that reply, and looked so searchingly at Airs. Pip- 
chin for a truer answer, that she was obliged to get up 
and look out of the window to avoid his eyes. 


28 C 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


There was a certain calm apothecary, who attended at 
the establishment when any of the young gentlemen 
were ill, and somehow he got into the room and appeared 
at the bedside, with Mrs. Blimber. How they came 
there, or how long they had been there, Paul didn’t 
know ; but when he saw them, he sat up in bed, and 
answered all the apothecary’s questions at full length, 
and whispered to him that Florence was not to know 
anything about it if he pleased, and that he had set his 
mind upon her coming to the party. He was very chat- 
ty with the apothecary, and they parted excellent friends. 
Lying down again with his eyes shut, he heard the 
apothecary say, out of the room and quite a long way 
off — or he dreamed it — that there was a want of vital 
power (what was that, Paul wondered !) and great con 
stitutional weakness. That as the little fellow had set 
his heart on parting with his schoolmates on the seven- 
teenth, it would be better to indulge the fancy if he grew 
no worse. That he was glad to hear from Mrs. Pipchin 
that the little fellow would go to his friends in London 
on the eighteenth. That he would write to Mr. Dom- 
bey, when he should have gained a better knowledge of 
the case, and before that day. That there was no im- 
mediate cause for — what ? Paul lost that word. And 
that the little fellow had a fine mind, but was an old- 
fashioned boy. 

What old fashion could that be, Paul wondered with 
a palpitating heart, that was so visibly expressed in him ; 
so plainly seen by so many people ! 

He could neither make it out, nor trouble himself long 
with the effort. Mrs. Pipchin was again beside him, if 
she had ever been away (he thought she had gone out 
with the doctor, but it was all a dream perhaps), and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


281 


piesently a bottle and glass got into her hands magically 
and she poured out the contents for him. After that, he 
had some real good jelly, which Mrs. Blimber brought to 
him herself ; and then he w r as so well, that Mrs. Pipchin 
went home, at his urgent solicitation, and Briggs and 
Tozer came to bed. Poor Briggs grumbled terribly 
about his own analysis, which could hardly have discom- 
posed him more if it had been a chemical process ; but 
he was very good to Paul, and so was Tozer, and so 
were all the rest, for they every one looked in before 
going to bed, and said, “ How' are you now', Dombey ? ” 
“ Cheer up, little Dombey ! ” and so forth. After Briggs 
had got into bed, he lay awake for a long time, still 
bemoaning his analysis, and saying he knew' it w r as all 
wrong, and they couldn’t have analyzed a murderei 
w'orse, and how would Doctor Blimber like it if his 
pocket-money depended on it ? It was very easy, Briggs 
said, to make a galley-slave of a boy all the half-year, 
and then score him up idle ; and to crib two dinners a- 
week out of his board, and then score him up greedy ; 
but that wasn’t going to be submitted to, he believed, 
was it ? Oh ! Ah ! 

Before the w r eak-eyed young man performed on the 
gong next morning, he came up-stairs to Paul and told 
him he was to lie still, which Paul very gladly did. 
Mrs. Pipchin reappeared a little before the apothecary, 
and a little after the good young woman whom Paul had 
seen cleaning the stove on that first morning (how long 
ago it seemed now r !) had brought him his breakfast. 
There w r as another consultation a long way off, or else 
Paul dreamed it again ; and then the apothecary, com- 
ing back with Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, said : 

“ Yes, I think, Doctor Blimber, w'e may release this 


282 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


young gentleman from his books just now ; the vacation 
being so very near at hand.” 

“ By all means.,” said Doctor Blimber. “ My love, 
you will inform Cornelia, if you please.” 

“Assuredly,” said Mrs. Blimber. 

The apothecary bending down, looked closely into 
Paul’s eyes, and felt his head, and his pulse, and his 
heart, with so much interest and care, that Paul said, 
“Thank you, sir.” 

“ Our little friend,” observed Doctor Blimber, “ has 
never complained.” 

“ Oh no ! ” replied the apothecary. “ He was not 
likely to complain.” 

“ You find him greatly better ? ” said Doctor Blimber. 

“ Oh ! He is greatly better, sir,” returned the apoth- 
ecary. 

Paul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on 
the subject that might occupy the apothecary’s mind just 
at that moment ; so musingly had he answered the two 
questions of Doctor Blimber. But the apothecary hap- 
pening to meet his little patient’s eyes, as the latter set 
off on that mental expedition, and coming instantly out 
of his abstraction with a cheerful smile, Paul smiled in 
return and abandoned it. 

He lay in bed all that day, dozing and dreaming, and 
looking at Mr. Toots ; but got up on the next, and went 
down-stairs. Lo and behold, there was something the 
matter with the great clock ; and a workman on a pair 
of steps had taken its face off, and was poking instru- 
ments into the works by the light of a candle ! This 
Was a great event for Paul, who sat down on the bottom 
stair, and watched the operation attentively : now and 
then glancing at the clock face, leaning all askew, against 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


283 


the wall hard by, and feeling a little confused by a sus- 
picion that it was ogling him. 

The workman on the steps was very civil ; and as he 
said, when he observed Paul, “ How do you do, sir ? ” 
Paul got into conversation with him, and told him he 
hadn’t been quite well lately. The ice being thus 
broken, Paul asked him a multitude of questions about 
chimes and clocks: as, whether people watched up in 
the lonely church steeples by night to make them strike}, 
and how the bells were rung when people died, and 
whether those were different bells from wedding bells, 
or only sounded dismal in the fancies of the living. 
Finding that his new acquaintance was not very well in- 
formed on the subject of the curfew bell of ancient days, 
Paul gave him an account of that institution ; and also 
asked him as a practical man, what he thought about 
King Alfred’s idea of measuring time by the burning of 
candles ; to which the workman replied, that he thought 
it would be the ruin of the clock trade if it was to come 
up again. In fine, Paul looked on, until the clock had 
quite recovered its familiar aspect, and resumed its 
sedate inquiry; when the workman, putting away his 
tools in a long basket, bade him good-day, and went 
away. Though not before he had whispered something, 
on the door-mat, to the footman, in which there was the 
phrase “ old-fashioned ” — for Paul heard it. 

What could that old fashion be, that seemed to make 
the people sorry ! What could it be ! 

Having nothing to learn now, he thought of t^is fre- 
quently ; though not so often as he might have done, if 
he had had fewer things to think of. But he had a 
great many ; and was always thinking, all day long. 

First, there was Florence coming to the party, Flor- 


284 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ence would Fee that the boys were fond of him ; and 
that would make her happy. This was his great theme 
Let Florence once be sure that they were gentle and 
good to him, and that he had become a little favorite 
among them, and then she would always think of the 
time he had passed there, without being very sorry. 
Florence might be all the happier too for that, perhaps, 
when he came back. 

When he came back ! Fifty times a-day, his noiseless 
little feet went up the stairs to his own room, as he col- 
lected every book, and scrap, and trifle that belonged to 
him, and put them all together there, down to the minut- 
est thing, for taking home ! There was no shade of 
coming back on little Paul; no preparation for it, or 
other reference to it, grew out of anything he thought 
or did, except this slight one in connection with his 
sister. On the contrary, he had to think of everything 
familiar to him, in his contemplative moods and in his 
wanderings about the house, as being to be parted with ; 
and hence the many things he had to think of, all day 
long. 

He had to peep into those rooms up-stairs, and think 
how solitary they would be when he was gone, and won- 
der through how many silent days, weeks, months, and 
years, they would continue just as grave and undisturbed. 
IIs had to think — would any other child (old-fashioned, 
like himself) stray there at any time, to whom the same 
grotesque distortions of pattern and furniture would 
manifest themselves; and would anybody* tell that boy 
of little Dombey, who had been there once. 

He had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which 
always looked earnestly after him as he went away, 
eying it over his shoulder ; and which, when he passed 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


285 


it in the company of any one, still seemed to gaze at 
him, and not at his companion. He had much to think 
of, in association with a print that hung up in another 
place, where, in the centre of a wondering group, one 
figure that he knew, a figure with a light about its head 
— benignant, mild, and merciful — stood pointing up- 
ward. 

At his own bedroom window, there were crowds of 
thoughts that mixed with these, and came on, one uj on 
another, one upon another, like the rolling waves. 
Where those wild birds lived, that were always hover- 
ing out at sea in troubled weather ; where the clouds 
rose, and first began ; whence the wind issued on its 
rushing flight, and where it stopped ; whether the spot 
where he and Florence had so often sat, and watched, 
and talked about these things, could ever be exactly as 
it used to be without them ; whether it could ever be 
the same to Florence, if he were in some distant place, 
and she were sitting there alone. 

He had to think, too, of Mr. Toots, and Mr. Feeder, 
B. A. ; of all the boys ; and of Doctor Blimber, Mrs. 
Blimber, and Miss Blimber ; of home, and of his aunt 
and Miss Tox ; of his father, Dombey and Son, Walter 
with the poor old uncle who had got the money he 
wanted, and that gruff-voiced captain with the iron hand. 
Besides all this, he had a number of little visits to pay, 
in the course of the day ; to the school-room, to Doctor 
Blimber’s study, to Mrs. Blimber’s private apartment, to 
Miss Blimber’s, and to the dog. For he was free of the 
whole house now, to range it as he chose ; and, in his 
desire to part with everybody on affectionate terms, he 
attended, in his way, to them all. Sometimes he found 
places in books for Briggs, who was always losing them ; 


286 


DOMBEY AMD SON. 


sometimes te looked up words in dictionaries for other 
young gentlemen who were in extremity ; sometimes he 
held skeins of silk for Mrs. Blimber to wind : sometimes 
he put Cornelia’s desk to rights ; sometimes he would 
even creep into the doctor’s study, and, sitting on the 
carpet near his learned feet, turn the globes softly, and 
go round the world, or take a flight among the far-off 
stars. 

In those days immediately before the holidays, in 
short, when the other young gentlemen were laboring 
for dear life through a general resumption of the 
studies of the whole half-year, Paul was such a privi- 
leged pupil as had never been seen in that house before. 
He could hardly believe it himself ; but his liberty lasted 
rom hour to hour, and from day to day ; and little Dom- 
bey was caressed by every one. Doctor Blimber was 
so particular about him, that he requested Johnson to 
retire from the dinner-table one dajq for having thought- 
lessly spoken to him as “ poor little Dombey ; ” which 
Paul thought rather hard and severe, though he had 
flushed at the moment, and wondered why Johnson 
should pity him. It was the more questionable justice, 
Paul thought, in the doctor, from his having certainly 
overheard that great authority give his assent on the 
previous evening, to the proposition (stated by Mrs. 
Blimber) that poor dear little Dombey was more old- 
fashioned than ever. And now it was that Paul began 
to think it must surely be old-fashioned to be very thin, 
and light, and easily tired, and soon disposed to lie down 
anywhere and rest ; for he couldn’t help feeling that 
these were more and more his habits every day. 

At last the party-day arrived ; and Doctor Blimber 
said at breakfast, “ Gentlemen, we will resume our 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


287 


studies on the twenty-fifth of next month.” Mr. Toots 
immediately threw off his allegiance, and put on his 
ring : and mentioning the doctor in casual conversation 
shortly afterwards, spoke of him as “ Blimber ! ” This 
act of freedom inspired the older pupils with admiration 
and envy ; but the younger spirits were appalled, and 
seemed to marvel that no beam fell down and crushed 
him. 

Not the least allusion was made to the ceremonies 
of the evening, either at breakfast or at dinner; but 
there was a bustle in the house all day, and in the 
course of his perambulations, Paul made acquaintance 
with various strange benches and candlesticks, and met 
a harp in a green great-coat standing on the landing 
outside the drawing-room door. There was something 
queer, too, about Mrs. Blimber’s head at dinner-time, 
as if she had screwed her hair up too tight; and though 
Miss Blimber showed a graceful bunch of plaited hair 
on each temple, she seemed to have her own little curls 
in paper underneath, and in a playbill too; for Paul 
read “ Theatre Royal ” over one of her sparkling spec- 
tacles, and “ Brighton ” over the other. 

There was a grand array of white waistcoats and 
cravats in the young gentlemen’s bedrooms as evening 
approached ; and such a smell of singed hair, that Doc- 
tor Blimber sent up the footman with his compliments, 
and wished to know if the house was on fire. But 
it was only the hair-dresser curling the young gentle- 
men, and overheating his tongs in the ardor of business. 

When Paul was dressed — which was very soon done, 
(or he felt unwell and drowsy, and was not able to 
stand about it very long — he went down into the draw- 
ing-room; where he found Doctor Blimber pacing up 


288 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and down the room full dressed, but with a dignified 
and unconcerned demeanor, as if he thought it barely 
possible that one or two people might drop in by and 
by. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Blimber appeared, look- 
ing lovely, Paul thought ; and attired in such a number 
of skirts that it was quite an excursion to walk round 
* her. Miss Blimber came down soon after her mamma ; 
a little squeezed in appearance but very charming. 

Mr. Toots and Mr. Feeder were the next arrivals. 
Each of these gentlemen brought his hat in his hand 
as if he lived somewhere else ; and when they were 
announced by the butler, Doctor Blimber said, “ Ay, 
ay, ay ! God bless my soul ! ” and seemed extremely 
glad to see them. Mr. Toots was one blaze of jewel- 
ry and buttons ; and he felt the circumstance so strongly, 
that when he had shaken hands with the doctor, and 
had bowed to Mrs. Blimber and Miss Blimber, he took 
Paul aside, and said, “ What do you think of this, Dom- 
bey ! ” 

But notwithstanding this modest confidence in himself, 
Mr. Toots appeared to be involved in a good deal of 
uncertainty whether, on the whole, it was judicious to 
button the bottom button of his waistcoat, and whether, 
on a calm revision of all the circumstances, it was 
best to wear his wristbands turned up or turned down. 
Observing that Mr. Feeder’s were turned up, Mr. Toots 
turned his up ; but the wristbands of the next arrival 
l»ei lg turned down, Mr. Toots turned his down. The 
differences in point of waistcoat-buttoning, not only at 
the bottom, but at the top too, became so numerous 
and complicated as the arrivals thickened, that Mr. Toots 
was continually fingering that article of dress, as if he 
were performing on some instrument ; and appeared 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


289 


to find the incessant execution it demanded, quite be* 
wildering. 

All the young gentlemen tightly cravatted, curled, 
and pumped, and with their best hats in their hands, 
having been at different times announced and introduced, 
Mr. Baps, the dancing-master, came, accompanied by 
Mrs. Baps, to whom Mrs. Blimber was extremely kind 
and condescending. Mr. Baps was a very grave gen- 
tleman, with a slow and measured manner of speaking; 
and before he had stood under the lamp five minutes, 
he began to talk to Toots (who had been silently com- 
paring pumps with him) about what you were to do 
w r ith your raw materials when they came into your 
ports in return for your drain of gold. Mr. Toots, 
to whom the question seemed perplexing, suggested 
“ Cook ’em^” But Mr. Baps did not appear to think 
that would do. 

Paul now slipped away from the cushioned cor- 
ner of a sofa, which had been his post of observation, 
and went down-stairs into the tea-room to be ready 
for Florence, whom he had not seen for nearly a fort- 
night, as he had remained at Doctor Blimber’s on the 
previous Saturday and Sunday, lest he should take 
cold. Presently she came : looking so beautiful in her 
simple ball-dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, 
that when she knelt down on the ground to take Paul 
round the neck and kiss him (for there was no one 
there but his friend and another young woman wait- 
ing to serve out the tea), he could hardly make up 
bis mind to let her go again, or take away her bright 
and loving eyes from his face. 

“ But what is the matter, Floy ? ” asked Paul, almost 
sure that he saw a tear there. 

19 


VOL. I. 


290 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Nothing, darling, nothing, 1 ” returned Florence 

Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger — and 
it was a tear ! “ Why, Floy ! ” said he. 

“ We’ll go home together, and I’ll nurse you, love,” 
eaid Florence. 

“Nurse me ! ” echoed Paul. 

Paul couldn’t understand what that had to do with it, 
nor why the two young women looked on so seriously, 
nor why Florence turned away her face for a moment, 
and then turned it back, lighted up again with smiles. 

“ Floy,” said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair 
in his hand. “ Tell me, dear. Do you think I have 
grown old-fashioned ? ” 

His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him 
“ No.” 

“ Because I know they say so,” returned Paul, “ and 
I want to know what they mean, Floy.” 

But a loud double knock coming at the door, and 
Florence hurrying to the table, there was no more said 
between them. Paul wondered again when he saw 
his friend whisper to Florence, as if she were com- 
forting her ; but a new arrival put that out of his head 
speedily. 

It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Mas- 
ter Skettles. Master Skettles was to be a new boy after 
the vacation, and Fame had been busy, in Mr. Feeder’s 
room, with his father, who was in the House of Com- 
mons, and of whom Mr. Feeder had said that when he 
did catch the Speaker’s eye (which he had been ex- 
pected to do for three or four years), it was anticipated 
that he would rather touch up the Radicals. 

“ And what room is this now, for instance ? ” said 
Lady Skettles to Paul’s friend, ’Melia. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


291 


u Doctor Blimber’s study, ma’am,” was the reply. 

Lady Skettles took a panoramic survey of it through 
her glass, and said to Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of 
approval, “Very good.” Sir Barnet assented, but Master 
Skettles looked suspicious and doubtful. 

“ And this little creature, now,” said Lady Skettles, 
turning to Paul. “ Is he one of the ” — 

“Young gentlemen, ma’am ; yes, ma’am,” said Paul’s 
friend. 

“ And what is your name, my pale child ? ” said Lady 
Skettles. 

“ Dombey,” answered Paul. 

Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said 
that he had had the honor of meeting Paul’s father at 
a public dinner, and that he hoped he was very well. 
Then Paul heard him say to Lady Skettles, “ City — 
very rich — most respectable — doctor mentioned it.” 
And then he said to Paul, “ Will you tell your good 
papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to hear that he 
was very well, and sent him his best compliments ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered Paul. 

“ That is my brave boy,” said Sir Barnet Skettles. 
“ Barnet,” to Master Skettles, who was revenging him- 
self for the studies to come, on the plum-cake, “ this is 
a young gentleman you ought to know. This is a 
young gentleman you may know, Barnet,” said Sir 
Barnet Skettles, with an emphasis on the permission 

“ What eyes ! What hair ! What a lovely face ! ” 
exclaimed Lady Skettles softly, as she looked at Flor- 
ence through her glass. 

“ My sister,” said Paul, presenting her. 

The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complete. 
And as Lady Skettles had conceived, at first sight, a 


292 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


liking for Paul, they all went up-stairs together Sir 
Barnet Skettles taking care of Florence, and young 
Barnet following. 

Young Barnet did not remain long in the background 
after they had reached the drawing-room, for Doctor 
Blimber had him out in no time, dancing with Florence. 
He did not appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or 
particularly anything but sulky, or to care much what 
he was about ; but as Paul heard Lady Skettles say to 
Mrs. Blimber, while she beat time with her fan, that 
her dear boy was evidently smitten to death by that 
angel of a child, Miss Dombey, it would seem that Sket- 
tles junior was in a state of bliss without showing it. 

Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that 
nobody had occupied his place among the pillows ; and 
that when he came into the room again, they should all 
make way for him to go back to it, remembering it was 
his. Nobody stood before him either, when they ob- 
served that he liked to see Florence dancing, but they 
left the space in front quite clear, so that he might fol- 
low her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even 
the strangers, of whom there were soon a great many, 
that they came and spoke to him every now and then, 
and asked him how he was, and if his head ached, and 
whether he was tired. He was very much obliged to 
them for all their kindness and attention, and reclining 
propped up in his corner, with Mrs. Blimber and Lady 
Skettles on the same sofa, and Florence coming and sit- 
ting by his side as soon as every dance was ended, he 
looked on very happily indeed. 

Florence would have sat by him all night, and would 
not have danced at all of her own accord, but Paul made 
her, by telling her how much it pleased him. And ho 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


293 


told her the truth, too; for his small heart swelled, and 
his face glowed, when he saw how much they all admired 
her, and how she was the beautiful little rosebud of the 
room. 

From his nest among the pillow's, Paul could see and 
hear almost everything that passed, as if the whole were 
being done for his amusement. Among other little in- 
cidents that he observed, he observed Mr. Baps the 
dancing-master get into conversation with Sir Barnet 
Skettles, and very soon ask him, as he had asked Mr. 
Toots, what you were to do with your raw materials, 
when they came into your ports in return, for your 
drain of gold — which was such a mystery to Paul that 
he was quite desirous to know what ought to be done 
with them. Sir Barnet Skettles had much to say upon 
the question, and said it ; but it did not appear to solve 
the question, for Mr. Baps retorted, Yes, but supposing 
Russia stepped in with her tallows, which struck Sir Bar- 
net almost dumb, for he could only shake his head after 
that, and say, why then you must fall back upon your 
cottons, he supposed. 

Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr. Baps when he 
went to cheer up Mrs. Baps (who, being quite deserted, 
was pretending to look over the music-book of the gen- 
tleman who played the harp), as if he thought him a 
remarkable kind of man ; and shortly afterwards he said 
so in those words to Doctor Blimber, and inquired if he 
might take the liberty of asking who he was, and whether 
he had ever been in the Board of Trade. Doctor Blim- 
ber answered no, he believed not ; and that in fact he 
was a professor of — 

“ Of something connected with statistics, I'll swear ? *' 
observed Sir Barnet Skettles. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


294 


“ Why no, Sir Barnet,” replied Doctor Blimber, rub- 
bing his chin. “ No, not exactly.” 

“ Figures of some sort I would venture a bet,” said 
Sir Barnet Skettles. 

“ Why, yes,” said Doctor Blimber, “ yes, but not of 
that sort. Mr. Baps is a very worthy sort of man 
Sir Barnet, and — in fact he’s our professor of dan- 
cing.” 

Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information 
quite altered Sir Barnet Skettles’s opinion of Mr. Baps, 
and that Sir Barnet flew into a perfect rage, and glow- 
ered at Mr. Baps over on the other side of the room. 
He even went so far as to d Mr. Baps to Lady Skettles, 
in telling her what had happened, and to say that it 
was like his most con-sum-mate and con-foun-ded im- 
pudence. 

There was another thing that Paul observed. Mr. 
Feeder, after imbibing several custard-cups of negus, 
began to enjoy himself. The dancing in general was 
ceremonious, and the music rather solemn — a little like 
church-music in fact : but after the custard-cups, Mr. 
Feeder told Mr. Toots that he was going to throw a 
little spirit into the thing. After that, Mr. Feeder not 
only began to dance as if he meant dancing and noth- 
ing else, but secretly to stimulate the music to perform 
wild tunes. Further, he became particular in his at- 
tentions to the ladies; and dancing with Miss Blimber 
whispered to her — whispered to her ! — though not 
so softly but that Paul heard him say this remarkable 
poetry, — 

“ Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne’er could injure You! ” 

This Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies iD 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


295 


succession. Well might Mr. Feeder say to Mr. Toots, 
that he was afraid he should be the worse for it to* 
morrow ! 

Mrs. Blimber was a little alarmed by this — compar- 
atively speaking — profligate behavior ; and especially 
by the alteration in the character of the music, which, 
beginning to comprehend low melodies that were popu- 
lar in the streets, might not unnaturally be supposed to 
give offence to Lady Skettles. But Lady Skettles was 
so very kind as to beg Mrs. Blimber not to mention it ; 
and to receive her explanation that Mr. Feeder’s spirits 
sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these occasions, 
with the greatest courtesy and politeness; observing, that 
he seemed a very nice sort of person for his situation, 
and that she particularly liked the unassuming style of 
his hair — which (as already hinted) was about a quar- 
ter of an inch long. 

Once, when there was a pause in the dancing, Lady 
Skettles told Paul that he seemed very fond of music. 
Paul replied, that he was ; and if she was, too, she ought 
to hear his sister Florence sing. Lady Skettles pres- 
ently discovered that she was dying with anxiety to have 
that gratification ; and though Florence was at first very 
much frightened at being asked to sing before so many 
people, and begged earnestly to be excused, yet, on Paul 
calling her to him, and saying, “ Do, Floy ! Please ! 
For me, mj' dear ! ” she went straight to the piano, and 
began. When they all drew a little away, that Paul 
might see her ; and when he saw her sitting there alone, 
so young, and good, and beautiful, and kind to him ; and 
heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such 
a golden link between him and all his life’s love and 
happiness, rising out of the silence ; he turned his face 


296 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


away, and hid his tears. Not, as he told them when 
they spoke to him, not that the music was too plaintive or 
too sorrowful, but it was so dear to him. 

They all loved Florence ! How could they help it ! 
Paul had known beforehand that they must and would ; 
and sitting in his cushioned corner, with calmly folded 
hands, and one leg loosely doubled under him, few would 
have thought what triumph and delight expanded his 
childish bosom while he watched her, or what a sweet 
tranquillity he felt. Lavish encomiums on “ Dombey’s 
sister,’’ reached his ears from all the boys : admiration 
of the self-possessed and modest little beauty, was on 
every lip : reports of her intelligence and accomplish- 
ments floated past him, constantly ; and, as if borne in 
upon the air of the summer night, there was a half-intel- 
ligible sentiment diffused around, referring to Florence 
and himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that 
soothed and touched him. 

He did not know why. For all that the child ob- 
served, and felt, and thought, that night — the present 
and the absent ; what was then and what had been — 
were blended like the colors in the rainbow, or in the 
plumage of rich birds when the sun is shining on them, 
or in the softening sky when the same sun is setting. 
The many things he had had to think of lately, passed 
before him in the music ; not as claiming his attention 
over again, or as likely ever more to occupy it, but as 
peacefully disposed of and gone. A solitary window, 
gazed through years ago, looked out upon an ocean, 
miles and miles away ; upon its waters, fancies busy with 
him only yesterday, were hushed and lulled to rest like 
broken waves. The same mysterious murmur he had 
wondered at, when lying on his couch upon the beach, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


297 


he thought he still heard sounding through his sister’s 
song, and through the hum of voices, and the tread of 
feet, and having some part in the faces flitting by, and 
even in the heavy gentleness of Mr. Toots, who fre- 
quently came up to shake him by the hand. Through 
the universal kindness he still thought he heard it, 
speaking to him ; and even his old-fashioned reputation 
seemed to be allied to it, he knew not how. Thus little 
Paul sat musing, listening, looking on, and dreaming ; 
and was very happy. 

Until the time arrived for taking leave : and then, 
indeed, there was a sensation in the party. Sir Barnet 
Skettles brought up Skettles Junior to shake hands with 
him, and asked him if he would remember to tell his 
good Papa, with his best compliments, that he, Sir Bar- 
net Skettles, had said he hoped the two young gentle- 
men would become intimately acquainted. Lady Skettles 
kissed him, and parted his hair upon his brow, and held 
him in her arms ; and even Mrs. Baps — poor Mrs. 
Baps ! Paul was glad of that — came over from beside 
the music-book of the gentleman who played the harp, 
and took leave of him quite as heartily as anybody in 
the room. 

“ Good-by, Doctor Blimber,” said Paul, stretching out 
his hand. 

Good-by, my little friend,” returned the doctor. 

“ I’m very much obliged to you, sir,” said Paul, look- 
ing innocently up into his awful face. “ Ask them to 
take care of Diogenes, if you please.” 

Diogenes was the dog : who had never in his life 
received a friend into his confidence, before Paul. The 
doctor promised that every attention should be paid to 
Diogenes in Paul’s absence, and Paul having again 


298 


DOMBEY AND Sv_N. 


thanked him, and shaken hands with him, bade adieu to 
Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia with such heartfelt earnest- 
ness that Mrs. Blimber forgot from that moment to men- 
tion Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had fully in- 
tended it, all the evening. Cornelia taking both Paul’s 
hands in hers, said, “Dombey, Dombey, you have always 
been my favorite pupil. God bless you ! ” And it 
showed, Paul thought, how easily one might do injustice 
to a person ; for Miss Blimber meant it — though she 
was a Forcer — and felt it. 

A buzz then went round among the young gentlemen, 
of “ Dombey’s going ! ” “ Little Dombey’s going ! ” and 
there was a general move after Paul and Florence down 
the staircase and into the hall, in which the whole Blim- 
ber family were included. Such a circumstance, Mr. 
Feeder said aloud, as had never happened in the case of 
any former young gentleman within his experience ; but 
it would be difficult to say if this were sober fact or 
custard-cups. The servants with the butler at their 
head, had all an interest in seeing Little Dombey go ; 
and even the weak-eyed young man, taking out his books 
and trunks to the coach that was to carry him and Flor- 
ence to Mrs. Pipchin’s for the night, melted visibly. 

Not even the influence of the softer passion on the 
young gentlemen — and they all, to a boy, doted on 
Florence — could restrain them from taking quite a 
noisy leave of Paul ; waving hats after him, pressing 
down-stairs to shake hands with him, crying individually 
* Dombey, don’t forget me ! ” and indulging in many 
such ebullitions of feeling, uncommon among those young 
Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she wrapped 
him up before the door was opened, Did she hear them ? 
Would she ever forget it ? Was she glad to know it ? 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


299 


And a lively delight was in his eyes as he spoke to 
her. 

Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upor the 
faces thus addressed to him, surprised to see how shining 
and how bright, and numerous they were, and how they 
were all piled and heaped up, as faces are at crowded 
theatres. They swam before him as he looked, like 
faces in an agitated glass : and next moment he was in 
the dark coach outside, holding close to Florence. From 
that time, whenever he thought of Doctor Blimber’s, it 
came back as he had seen it in this last view ; and it 
never seemed to be a real place again, but always a 
dream, full of eyes. 

This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber’s, 
however. There was something else. There was Mr. 
Toots. Who, unexpectedly letting down one of the 
coach-windows, and looking in, said, with a most egre- 
gious chuckle, “ Is Dombey there ? ” and immediately 
put it up again, without waiting for an answer. Nor 
was this quite the last of Mr. Toots, even ; for before 
the coachman could drive off, he as suddenly let down 
the other window, and looking in with a precisely sim- 
ilar chuckle, said in a precisely similar tone of voice, “ Is 
Dombey there ? ” and disappeared precisely as before. 

How Florence laughed ! Paul often remembered it, 
and laughed himself whenever he did so. 

But there was much, soon afterwards — next day, and 
after that — which Paul could only recollect confusedly. 
As, why they stayed at Mrs. Pipchin’s days and nights, 
instead of going home ; Why he lay in bed, with Flor- 
ence sitting by his side ; whether that had been his father 
in the room, or only a tall shadow on the wall ; whether 
he had heard his doctor say, of some one, that if they 


300 


DOMBEY AND SON, 


had removed him before the occasion on which he had 
built up fancies, strong in proportion to his own weak- 
ness, it was very possible he might have pined away. 

He could not even remember whether he had often 
said to Florence, “ Oh Floy, take me home, and never 
leave me ! ” but he thought he had. He fancied some- 
times he had heard himself repeating, “ Take me home, 
Floy ! take me home ! ” 

But he could remember, when he got home, and was 
carried up the well-remembered stairs, that there had 
been the rumbling of a coach for many hours together, 
while he lay upon the seat, with Florence still beside 
him, and old Mrs. Pipchin sitting opposite. He remem- 
bered his old bed too, when they laid him down in it : 
his aunt, Miss Tox, and Susan : but there was something 
else, and recent too, that still perplexed him. 

“ I want to speak to Florence, if you please,” he said. 
“ To Florence by herself, for a moment ! ” 

She bent down over him, and the others stood away. 

“ Floy, my pet, wasn’t that papa in the hall, when 
they brought me from the coach ? 99 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“ He didn’t cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, 
when he saw me coming in ? ” 

Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against 
his cheek. 

“ I’m very glad he didn’t cry,” said little Paul. u I 
thought he did. Don’t tell them that I asked.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


301 


CHAPTER XV. 

amazing artfulness of captain cuttle, and a new 

PURSUIT FOR WALTER GAY. 

Walter could not, for several days, decide what to 
do in the Barbadoes business ; and even cherished some 
faint hope that Mr. Dombey might not have meant what 
he had said, or that he might change his mind, and tell 
him he was not to go. But as nothing occurred to give 
this idea (which was sufficiently improbable in itself) any 
touch of confirmation, and as time was slipping by, and 
he had none to lose, he felt that he must act, without 
nesitating any longer. 

Walter’s chief difficulty was, how to break the chang6 
in his affairs to Uncle Sol, to whom he was sensible it 
would be a terrible blow. He had the greater difficulty 
in dashing Uncle Sol’s spirits with such an astounding 
piece of intelligence, because they had lately recovered 
very much, and the old man had become so cheerful, 
that the little back parlor was itself again. Uncle Sol 
had paid the first appointed portion of the debt to Mr. 
Dombey, and was hopeful of working his way through 
the rest ; and to cast him down afresh, when he had 
sprung up so manfully from his troubles, was a very dis- 
tressing necessity. 

Yet it would never do to run away from him. He 
must know of it beforehand ; and how to tell him was 


302 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the point. As to the question of going or not going 
Walter did not consider that he had any power of choice 
in the matter. Mr. Dombey had truly told him that he 
was young, and that his uncle’s circumstances were not 
good ; and Mr. Dombey had plainly expressed, in the 
glance with which he had accompanied that reminder, 
that if he declined to go he might stay at home if he 
chose, but not in his counting-house. His uncle and he 
lay under a great obligation to Mr. Dombey, which was 
of Walter’s own soliciting. He might have begun in 
secret to despair of ever winning that gentleman’s favor, 
and might have thought that he was now and then dis- 
posed to put a slight upon him, which was hardly just 
But what would have been duty without that, was still 
duty with it — or Walter thought so — and duty must 
be done. 

When Mr. Dombey had looked at him, and told him 
he was young, and that his uncle’s circumstances were 
not good, there had been an expression of disdain in his 
face ; a contemptuous and disparaging assumption that 
he would be quite content to live idly on a reduced old 
man, which stung the boy’s generous soul. Determined 
to assure Mr. Dombey, in so far as it was possible to 
give him the assurance without expressing it in words, 
that indeed he mistook his nature, Walter had been anx- 
ious to show even more cheerfulness and activity after 
the West-Indian interview, than he had shown before: 
if that were possible, in one of his quick and zealous 
disposition. He was too young and inexperienced to 
think, that possibly this very quality in him was not 
agreeable to Mr. Dombey, and that it was no stepping- 
stone to his good opinion to be elastic and hopeful of 
pleasing under the shadow of his powerful displeasure, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


303 


whether it were right or wrong. But it may have been 
— it may have been — that the great man thought him- 
self defied in this new exposition of an honest spirit, and 
purposed to bring it down. 

“ Well ! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,” 
thought Walter with a sigh. And as Walter was appre- 
hensive that his voice might perhaps quaver a little, and 
that his countenance might not be quite as hopeful as he 
could wish it to be, if he told the old man himself, and 
saw the first effects of his communication on his wrinkled 
face, he resolved to avail himself of the services of that 
powerful mediator, Captain Cuttle. Sunday coming 
round, he set off, therefore, after breakfast, once more 
to beat up Captain Cuttle’s quarters. 

It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, 
that Mrs. MacStinger resorted to a great distance every 
Sunday morning, to attend the ministry of the Reverend 
Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one day dis- 
charged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion 
(got up expressly against him by the general enemy) of 
screwing gimlets into puncheons, and applying his lips to 
the orifice, had announced the destruction of the world 
for that day two years, at ten in the morning, and opened 
a front parlor for the reception of ladies and gentlemen 
of the Ranting persuasion, upon whom, on the first occa- 
sion of their assemblage, the admonitions of the Rever- 
end Melchisedech had produced so powerful an effect, 
that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred jig, 
which closed the service, the whole flock broke through 
into a kitchen below, and disabled a mangle belonging to 
one of the fold. 

This the captain, in a moment of uncommon convivi- 
ality, had confided to Walter and his uncle, between the 


304 


DOMBEY AI SB SON. 


repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night when Brogley the 
broker was paid out. The captain himself was punctual 
in his attendance at a church in his own neighborhood, 
which hoisted the union-jack every Sunday morning; 
and where he was good enough — the lawful beadk 
being infirm — to keep an eye upon the boys, over whoir 
he exercised great power, in virtue of his mysteriou 
hook. Knowing the regularity of the captain’s habits 
Walter made all the haste he could, that he might antici- 
pate his going out; and he made such good speed, that 
he had the pleasure, on turning into Brig Place, to be- 
hold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of 
the captain’s open window, to air in the sun. 

It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat 
could be seen by mortal eyes without the captain ; but he 
certainly was not in them, otherwise his legs — the 
houses in Brig Place not being lofty — would have ob- 
structed the street-door, which was perfectly clear. 
Quite wondering at this discovery, Walter gave a sin- 
gle knock. 

“ Stinger,” he distinctly heard the captain say, up in 
his room, as if that were no business of his. Therefore 
Walter gave two knocks. 

“ Cuttle,” he heard the captain say upon that; and im- 
mediately afterwards the captain, in his clean shirt and 
braces, with his neckerchief hanging loosely round his 
throat like a coil of rope, and his glazed hat on, ap- 
peared at the window, leaning out over the broad blue 
coat and waistcoat. 

“ Wal’r ! ” cried the captain, looking down upon him 
in amazement. 

“ Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter, “ only 
me.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


305 


“ What’s the matter, my lad ? ” inquired the captain, 
with great concern, “ Gills a’n’t been and sprung nothing 
again ? ” 

“ No, no,” said Walter. “ My uncle’s all right, Cap- 
tain Cuttle.” 

The captain expressed his gratification, and said he 
would come down below and open the door, which he 

did. 

“ Though you’re early, Wal'r,” said the captain, ey- 
ing him still doubtfully, when they got up-stairs. 

“ Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, sit- 
ting down, “ I was afraid you would have gone out, and 
I want to benefit by your friendly counsel.” 

“ So you shall,” said the captain ; “ what’ll you take?” 

“ I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,” re- 
turned Walter, smiling. “ That’s the only thing for 
me.” 

“ Come on then,” said the captain. “ With a will, my 
lad!” 

Walter related to him what had happened ; and the 
difficulty in which he felt respecting his uncle, and the 
relief it would be to him if Captain Cuttle, in his kind- 
ness, would help him to smooth it away ; Captain Cut- 
tle’s infinite consternation and astonishment at the pros- 
pect unfolded to him, gradually swallowing that gentle- 
man up, until it left his face quite vacant, and the suit 
of blue, the glazed hat, and the hook, apparently without 
an owner. 

<c You see, Captain Cuttle,” pursued Walter, “ for my- 
self, I am young, as Mr. Dombey said, and not to be 
considered. I am to fight my way through the world, I 
know ; but there are two points I was thinking, as I 
tame along, that I should be very particular about, in 
vol. i. 20 


306 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


respect to my uncle. I don’t mean to say that I deserve 
to be the pride and delight of his life — you believe me, 
I know — but I am. Now, don’t you think I am ? ” 
The captain seemed to make an endeavor to rise from 
the depths of his astonishment, and get back to his face ; 
but the effort being ineffectual, the glazed hat merely 
nodded with a mute unutterable meaning. 

“ If I live and have my health,” said Walter, “ and I 
am not afraid of that, still, when I leave England, I can 
hardly hope to see my uncle again. He is old, Captain 
Cuttle ; and besides, his life is a life of custom ” — 

“ Steady, Wal’r! Of a want of custom?” said the 
captain, suddenly reappearing. 

“Too true,” returned Walter, shaking his head ; “but 
I meant a life of habit, Captain Cuttle — that sort of 
custom. And if (as you very truly said, I am sure) he 
would have died the sooner for the loss of the stock, 
and all those objects to which he has been accustomed 
for so many years, don’t you think he might die a little 
sooner for the loss of ” — 

“ Of his nevy,” interposed the captain. “ Right ! ” 

“ Well then,” said Walter, trying to speak gayly, “ we 
must do our best to make him believe that the separa- 
tion is but a temporary one, after all ; but as I know 
better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle, and 
as I have so many reasons for regarding him with affec- 
tion, and duty, and honor, I am afraid I should make 
but a very poor hand at that, if I tried to persuade him 
of it. That’s my great reason for wishing you to break 
it out to him ; and that’s the first point.” 

“ Keep her off a point or so ! ” observed the captain, 
in a contemplative voice. 

“What did you say, Captain Cuttle?” inquired Wal- 


ter. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


307 


44 Stand by ! ” returned the captain, thoughtfully. 

Walter paused to ascertain if the captain had any par- 
ticular information to add to this, but as he said no more, 
went on. 

44 Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry 
to say, I am not a favorite with Mr. Dombey. I have 
always tried to do my best, and I have always done it ; 
but he does not like me. He can’t help his likings and 
dislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say 
that I am certain he does not like me. He does not 
send me to this post as a good one ; he disdains to rep- 
resent it as being better than it is ; and I doubt very 
much if it will ever lead me to advancement in the 
House — whether it does not, on the contrary, dispose 
of me forever, and put me out of the way. Now, we 
must say nothing of this to my uncle, Captain Cuttle, 
but must make it out to be as favorable and promising 
as we can ; and when I tell you what it really is, I only 
do so, that in case any means should ever arise of lend- 
ing me a hand, so far off, I may have one friend at home 
who knows my real situation.” 

“Wal’r, my boy,” replied the captain, “in the Prov- 
erbs of Solomon you will find the following words, 
4 May we never want a friend in need, nor a bottle to 
give him ! ’ When found, make a note of.” 

Here the captain stretched out his hand to Walter, 
with an air of downright good faith that spoke volumes ; 
at the same time repeating (for he felt proud of the ac- 
curacy and pointed application of his quotation), “ When 
found, make a note of.” 

“ Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, taking the immense 
fist extended to him by the captain in both his hands, 
which it completely filled, “ next to my Uncle Sol, I love 


308 


DOMBEY AND SON 


you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more 
safely trust, I am sure. As to the mere going away, 
Captain Cuttle, I don’t care for that ; why should I care 
for that ! If I were free to seek my own fortune — if I 
were free to go as a common sailor — if I were free to 
venture on my own account to the farthest end of the 
world — I would gladly go ! I would have gladly gone, 
years ago, and taken my chance of what might come of 
it. But it was against my uncle’s wishes, and against 
the plans he had formed for me ; and there w'as an end 
of that. But what I feel, Captain Cuttle, is that we 
have been a little mistaken all along, and that, so far as 
any improvement in my prospects is concerned, I am no 
better off now than I was when I first entered Dombey’s 
House — perhaps a little worse, for the House may have 
been kindly inclined towards me then, and it certainly is 
not now.” 

“ Turn again, Whittington,” muttered the disconsolate 
captain, after looking at Walter for some time. 

“ Ay ! ” replied Walter, laughing, “and turn a great 
many times, too, Captain Cuttle, I’m afraid, before such 
fortune as his ever turns up again. Not that I com- 
plain,” he added, in his lively, animated, energetic way. 
“ I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I 
can live. When I leave my uncle, I leave him to you ; 
and I can leave him to no one better, Captain Cuttle. I 
haven’t told you all this because I despair, not I ; it’s to 
convince you that I can’t pick and choose in Dorn bey’s 
House, and that where I am sent, there I must go, and 
what I am offered, that I must take. It’s better for my 
ancle that I should be sent away ; for Mr.- Dombey is a 
valuable friend to him, as he proved himself, you know 
when, Captain Cuttle ; and I am persuaded he won’t be 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


309 


less valuable when he hasn’t me there, every day, tc 
awaken his dislike. So hurrah for the West Indies, 
Captain Cuttle ! How does that tune go that the sailors 
sing ? 

“ For the Port of Barbadoes, boys ! 

Cheerily ! 

Leaving old England behind us, boys ! 

Cheerily \ ” 

Here the captain roared in chorus 

“ Oh cheerily, cheerily! 

“ Oh cheer — i — ly ! ” 

The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent 
skipper not quite sober, who lodged opposite, and who 
instantly sprung out of bed, threw up his window, and 
joined in across the street, at the top of his voice, pro- 
duced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain 
the concluding note any longer, the skipper bellowed 
forth a terrific “ ahoy ! ” intended in part as a friendly 
greeting, and in part to show that he was not at ail 
breathed. That done, he shut down his window, and 
went to bed again. 

“ And now, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, handing 
him the blue coat and waistcoat, and bustling very much, 
“ if you’ll come and break the news to Uncle Sol (which 
he ought to have known, days upon days ago, by rights) 
I’ll leave you at the door, you know, and walk about 
until the afternoon.” 

The captain, however, scarcely appeared to relish the 
commission, or to be by any means confident of his 
powers of executing it. He had arranged the future 
life and adventures of Walter so very differently, and so 
entirely to his own satisfaction ; he had felicitated him- 
self so often on the sagacity and foresigl t displayed id 


BIO 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that arrangement, and had found it so complete and per 
feet in all its parts ; that to suffer it to go to pieces all 
at once, and even to assist in breaking it up, required a 
great effort of his resolution. The captain, too, found it 
difficult to unload his old ideas upon the subject, and to 
take a perfectly new cargo on board, with that rapidity 
which the circumstances required, or without jumbling 
and confounding the two. Consequently, instead of put- 
ting on his coat and waistcoat with anything like the 
impetuosity that could alone have kept pace with Wal- 
ter’s mood, he declined to invest himself with those gar- 
ments at all at present ; and informed Walter that on 
such a serious matter, he must be allowed to “ bite his 
nails a bit.” 

“ It’s an old habit of mine, Wal’r,” said the captain, 
“ any time these fifty year. When you see Ned Cuttle 
bite his nails, Wal’r, then you may know that Ned Cut- 
tle’s aground.” 

Thereupon the captain put his iron hook between his 
teeth, as if it were a hand ; and with an air of wisdom 
and profundity that was the very concentration and sub- 
limation of all philosophical reflection and grave inquiry, 
applied himself to the consideration of the subject in its 
various branches. 

“ There’s a friend of mine,” murmured the captain, in 
an absent manner, “ but he’s at present coasting round to 
Whitby, that would deliver such an opinion on this sub- 
ject, or any other that could be named, as would give 
Parliament six and beat ’em. Been knocked overboard 
that man,” said the captain, “ twice, and none the worse 
for it. Was beat in his apprenticeship, for three weeks 
(off and on), about the head with a ringbolt. And yet a 
clearer- minded man don’t walk.” 


DOMBEY AND SOU. 


311 


In spite of his respect for Captain Cattle, Walter 
could not help inwardly rejoicing at the absence of this 
6age, and devoutly hoping that his limpid intellect might 
not be brought to bear on his difficulties until they were 
quite settled. 

“ If you was to take and show that man the buoy at 
the Nore,” said Captain Cuttle in the same tone, “ and 
ask him his opinion of it, Wal’r, he’d give you an opin- 
ion that was no more like that buoy than your uncle’s 
buttons are. There a’n’t a man that walks — certainly 
not on two legs — that can come near him. Not near 
him ! ” 

“What’s his name, Captain Cuttle?” inquired Wal- 
ter, determined to be interested in the captain’s friend. 

“ His name’s Bunsby,” said the captain. u But Lord, 
it might be anything for the matter of that, with such a 
mind as his ! ” 

The exact idea which the captain attached to this 
concluding piece of praise, he did not further elucidate ; 
neither did Walter seek to draw it forth. For on his 
beginning to review, with the vivacity natural to himself 
and to his situation, the leading points in his own affairs, 
he soon discovered that the captain had relapsed into his 
former profound state of mind ; and that while he eyed 
him steadfastly from beneath his bushy eyebrows, he 
evidently neither saw nor heard him, but remained im- 
mersed in cogitation. 

In fact, Captain Cuttle was laboring with such great 
designs, that far from being aground, he soon got off into 
the deepest of water, and could find no bottom to his 
penetration. By degrees it became perfectly plain to the 
captain that there was some mistake here; that it was 
undoubtedly much more likely to be Walter’s mistake 


312 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


than his ; that if there were really any West India 
scheme afoot, it was a very different one from what 
Walter, who was young and rash, supposed ; and could 
only be some new device for making his fortune with 
unusual celerity. “ Or if there should be any little 
hitch between ’em,” thought the captain, meaning be- 
tween Walter and Mr. Dombey, “ it only wants a word 
in season from a friend of both parties, to set it right 
and smooth, and make all taut again.” Captain Cuttle’s 
deduction from these considerations was, that as he al- 
ready enjoyed the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dombey, 
from having spent a very agreeable half hour in his com- 
pany at Brighton (on the morning when they borrowed 
the money) ; and that, as a couple of men of the world, 
who understood each other, -and were mutually disposed 
to make things comfortable, could easily arrange any 
little difficulty of this sort, and come at the real facts ; 
the friendly thing for him to do would be, without saying 
anything about it to Walter, at present just to step up to 
Mr. Dombey’s house — say to the servant ‘‘Would ye 
be so good, my lad, as report Cap’en Cuttle here ? ” — 
meet Mr. Dombey in a confidential spirit — hook him 
by the button-hole — talk it over — make it all right — 
and come away triumphant. 

As these reflections presented themselves to the cap- 
tain’s mind, and by slow degrees assumed this shape and 
form, his visage cleared like a doubtful morning when it 
gives place to a bright noon. His eyebrows, which had 
been in the highest degree portentous, smoothed their 
rugged bristling aspect, and became serene ; his eyes, 
which had been nearly closed in the severity of his 
mental exercise, opened freely ; a smile which had been 
at first but three specks — one at the right-hand corner 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


313 


of his mouth, and one at the corner of *ach eye — * 
gradually overspread his whole face, and rippling up 
into his forehead, lifted the glazed hat : as if that too 
had been aground with Captain Cuttle, and were now, 
like him, happily afloat again. 

Finally the captain left off biting his nails, and said, 
“ Now, Wal’r, my boy, you may help me on with them 
slops.” By which the captain meant his coat and waist- 
coat. 

Walter little imagined why the captain was so par- 
ticular in the arrangement of his cravat, as to twist the 
pendant ends into a sort of pigtail, and pass them through 
a massive gold ring with a picture of a tomb upon it, and 
a neat iron railing, and a tree, in memory of some de- 
ceased friend. Nor why the -captain pulled up his shirt- 
collar to the utmost limits allowed by the Irish linen 
below, and by so doing decorated himself with a com- 
plete pair of blinkers ; nor why he changed his shoes, 
and put on an unparalleled pair of ankle-jacks, which 
he only wore on extraordinary occasions. The captain 
being at length attired to bis own complete satisfaction, 
and having glanced at himself from head to foot in a 
shaving-glass which he removed from a nail for that 
purpose, took up his knotted stick, and said he was 
ready. 

The captain’s walk was more complacent than usual 
when they got out into the street; but this, Walter sup- 
posed to be the effect of the ankle-jacks, and took little 
heed of. Before they had gone very far, they encoun- 
tered a woman selling flowers ; when the captain stopping 
short, as if struck by a happy idea, made a purchase 
of the largest bundle in her basket ; a most glorious 
nosegay, fan-shaped, some two feet and a half round, 


314 


DOM BEY AND SON. 


and composed of all the jolliest-looking flowers that 
blow. 

Armed with this little token which he designed for 
Mr. Dombey, Captain Cuttle walked on with Walter 
until they reached the Instrument-maker’s door, before 
vhich they both paused. 

“ You’re going in ? ” said Walter. 

“ Yes ; ” returned the captain, who felt that Waltei 
nust be got rid of before he proceeded any farther, and 
:hat he had better time his projected visit somewhat later 
in the day. 

“ And you won’t forget anything ? ” said Walter. 

“ No,” returned the captain. 

“ I’ll go upon my walk at once,” said Walter, “ and 
then I shall be out of the way, Captain Cuttle.” 

“ Take a good long ’un, my lad ! ” replied the captain, 
calling after him. Walter waved his hand in assent, and 
went his way. 

His way was nowhere in particular ; but he thought 
he would go out into the fields, where he C3uld reflect 
upon the unknown life before him, and resting under 
some tree, ponder quietly. He knew no better fields 
than those near Hampstead, and no better means of 
getting at them than by passing Mr. Dombey’s house. 

It was as stately and as dark as ever, when he went 
by and glanced up at its frowning front. The blinds 
were all pulled down, but the upper windows stood 
wide open, and the pleasant air stirring those curtains 
and waving them to and fro, was the only sign of ani- 
mation in the whole exterior. Walter walked softly as 
he passed, and was glad when he had left the house a 
door or two behind. 

He looked back then ; with the interest he had always 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


315 


felt for the place since the adventure of the lost child, 
years ago ; and looked especially at those upper win- 
dows. While he was thus engaged, a chariot drove to 
the door, and a portly gentleman in black, with a heavy 
watch-chain, alighted, and went in. When he afterwards 
remembered this gentleman and his equipage together, 
Walter had no doubt he was a physician ; and then he 
wondered who was ill ; but the discovery did not occur 
to him until he had walked some distance, thinking list- 
lessly of other things. 

Though still, of what the house had suggested to him , 
for Walter pleased himself with thinking that perhaps 
the time might come, when the beautiful child who was 
his old friend and had always been so grateful to him 
and so glad to see him since, might interest her brother 
in his behalf and influence his fortunes for the better. 
He liked to imagine this — more, at that moment, for 
the pleasure of imagining her continued remembrance 
of him, than for any worldly profit he might gain : but 
another and more sober fancy whispered to him that if 
he were alive then, he would be beyond the sea and 
forgotten ; she married, rich, proud, happy. There was 
no more reason why she should remember him with any 
interest in such an altered state of things, than any play- 
thing she ever had. No, not so much. 

Yet Walter so idealized the pretty child whom he had 
found wandering in the rough streets, and so identified 
her with her innocent gratitude of that night and the 
simplicity and truth of its expression, that he blushed 
for himself as a libeller when he argued that she could 
ever grow proud. On the other hand, his meditations 
were of that fantastic order that it seemed hardly less 
libellous in him to imagine her grown a woman : to 


316 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


think of her as anything but the same artless, gentle, 
winning little creature, that she had been in the days 
of good Mrs. Brown. In a word, Walter found out 
that to reason with himself about Florence at all, was 
to become very unreasonable indeed ; and that he could 
do no better than preserve her image in his mind as 
something precious, unattainable, unchangeable, and in- 
definite — indefinite in all but its power of giving him 
pleasure, and restraining him like an angel’s hand from 
anything unworthy. 

It was a long stroll in the fields that Walter took that 
day, listening to the birds, and the Sunday bells, and the 
softened murmur of the town — breathing sweet scents ; 
glancing sometimes at the dim horizon beyond which his 
voyage and his place of destination lay ; then looking 
round on the green English grass and the home land- 
scape. But he hardly once thought even of going away, 
distinctly ; and seemed to put off reflection idly, from 
hour to hour, and from minute to minute, while he yet 
went on reflecting all the time. 

Walter had left the fields behind him, and was plod- 
ding homeward in the same abstracted mood, when he 
heard a shout from a man, and then a woman’s voice 
calling to him loudly by name. Turning quickly in his 
surprise, he saw that a hackney-coach, going in the con- 
trary direction, had stopped at no great distance ; that 
the coachman was looking back from his box, and mak- 
ing signals to him with his whip ; and that a young 
woman inside was leaning out of the window, and beck- 
oning with immense energy. Running up to this coach, 
he found that the young woman was Miss Nipper, and 
that Miss Nipper was in such a flutter as to be almost 
beside herself. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


317 


u Staggs’s Gardens, Mr. Walter!” said Miss Nipper; 
u if you please, oh do ! ” 

“ Eh ? ” cried Walter : “ what is the matter? ” 
u Oh, Mr. Walter, Staggs’s Gardens, if you please ! * 
said Susan. 

u There ! ” cried the coachman, appealing to Walter, 
with a sort of exulting despair ; “ that’s the way the 
young lady’s been a-goin’ on lor up’ards of a mortal 
hour, and me continivally backing out of no thorough- 
lares, where she would drive up. I’ve had a many 
fares in this coach, first and last, but never such a fare 
as her.” 

“ Do you want to go to Staggs’s Gardens, Susan ? ” 
inquired Walter. 

“Ah! She wants to go there! Where is it?” 
growled the coachman. 

“ I don’t know where it is ! ” exclaimed Susan, wildly. 
“ Mr. Walter, I was there once myself, along with Miss 
Floy and our poor darling Master Paul, on the very day 
when you found Miss Floy in the city, for we lost her 
coming home, Mrs. Richards and me, and a mad bull, 
and Mrs. Richards’ ' eldest, and though I went there 
afterwards, I can’t remember where it is, I think it’s 
sunk into the ground. Oh, Mr. Walter, don’t desert 
me, Staggs’s Gardens, if you please ! Miss Floy’s dar- 
ling — all our darlings — little, meek, meek Master 
Paul ! Oh Mr. Walter ! ” 

“ Good God ! ” cried Walter. “ Is he very ill ? ” 

“ The pretty flower ! ” cried Susan, wringing her 
hands, “ has took the fancy that he’d like to see his 
old nurse, and I’ve come to bring her to his bedside, 
Mrs. Staggs’s of Polly Toodle’s Gardens, some one 
pray ! ” 


318 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Greatly moved by what he heard, and catching Susan’a 
earnestness immediately, Walter, now that he understood 
the nature of her errand, dashed into it with such ardor 
that the coachman had enough to do to follow closely as 
he ran before, inquiring here and there and everywhere, 
the way to Staggs’s Gardens. 

There was no such place as Staggs’s Gardens. It had 
vanished from the earth. Where the old rotten sum- 
mer-houses once had stood, palaces now reared their 
heads, and granite columns of gigantic girth opened a 
vista to the railway world beyond. The miserable waste 
ground, where the refuse matter had been heaped of 
yore, was swallowed up and gone ; and in its frowsy 
stead were tiers of warehouses, crammed with rich goods 
and costly merchandise. The old by-streets now swarmed 
with passengers and vehicles of every kind : the new 
streets that had stopped disheartened in the mud and 
wagon-ruts, formed towns within themselves, originating 
wholesome comforts and conveniences belonging to them- 
selves, and never tried nor thought of until they sprung 
into existence. Bridges that had led to nothing, led to 
villas, gardens, churches, healthy public walks. The 
carcasses of houses, and beginnings of new thorough- 
fares, had started off upon the line at steam’s own speed, 
and shot away into the country in a monster train. 

As to the neighborhood which had hesitated to ac- 
knowledge the railroad in its straggling days, that had 
grown wise and penitent, as any Christian might in such 
a case, and now boasted of its powerful and prosperous 
relation. There were railway patterns in its drapers’ 
shops, and railway journals in the windows of its news- 
tneu. There were railway hotels, coffee-houses, lodg- 
ing-houses, boarding-houses ; railway plans, maps, views, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


319 


wrappers, bottles, sandwich-boxes, and time-tables ; rail- 
way hackney-coach and cab-stands ; railway omnibuses, 
railway streets and buildings, railway hangers-on and 
parasites, and flatterers out of all calculation. There 
was even railway time observed in clocks, as if. the sun 
itself had given in. Among the vanquished was the 
master chimney-sweeper, whilom incredulous at Staggs’s 
Gardens, who now lived in a stuccoed house three stories 
high, and gave himself out, with golden flourishes upon 
a varnished board, as contractor for the cleansing of rail- 
way chimneys by machinery. 

To and from the heart of this great change, all day 
and night, throbbing currents rushed and returned in- 
cessantly like its life’s blood. Crowds of people, and 
mountains of goods, departing and arriving scores upon 
scores of times in every four-and-twenty hours, produced 
a fermentation in the place that was always in action. 
The very houses seemed disposed to pack up and take 
trips. Wonderful members of Parliament, who, little 
more than twenty years before, had made themselves 
merry with the wild railroad theories of engineers, and 
given them the liveliest rubs in cross-examination, went 
down into the north with their watches in their hands, 
and sent on messages before by the electric telegraph 
to say that they w'ere coming. Night and day the con 
quering engines rumbled at their distant work, or, ad- 
vancing smoothly to their journey’s end, and gliding like 
tame dragons into the allotted corners grooved out to the 
inch for their reception, stood bubbling and trembling 
there, making the walls quake, as if they were dilating 
with the secret knowledge of great powers yet unsus- 
pected in them, and strong purposes not yet achieved. 

But Staggs’s Gardens had been cut up root and branch, 


320 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Oh woe the day ! when “ not a rood of English ground * 
— laid out in Staggs’s Gardens — is secure! 

At last, after much fruitless inquiry, Walter, followed 
by the coach and Susan, found a man who had once 
resided in that vanished land, and who was no other 
(ban the master sweep before referred to, grown stout, 
and knocking a double knock at his own door. He 
knowed Toodle, he said, well. Belonged to the rail- 
road, didn’t he? 

“ Yes, sir, yes ! ” cried Susan Nipper from the coach- 
window. 

Where did he live now? hastily inquired Walter. 

He lived in the company’s own buildings, second 
turning to the right, down the yard, cross over, and 
take the second on the right again. It was number 
eleven ; they couldn’t mistake it ; but if they did, they 
had only to ask for Toodle, Engine Fireman, and any 
one would show them which was his house. At this 
unexpected stroke of success, Susan Nipper dismounted 
from the coach with all speed, took Walter’s arm, 
and set off at a breathless pace on foot; leaving the 
coach there to await their return. 

“ Has the little boy been long ill, Susan ? ” inquired 
Walter, as they hurried on. 

“ Ailing for a deal of time, but no one knew how 
much, ” said Susan ; adding, with excessive sharpness, 
14 Oh, them Blimbers!” 

“ Blimbers ? ” echoed Walter. 

“ I couldn’t forgive myself at such a time as this, 
Mr. Walter,” said Susan, “and when there’s so much 
serious distress to think about, if I rested hard on any 
one, especially on them that little darling Paul speaks 
well of, but I may wish that the family was set to 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


32) 


work in a stony soil to make new roads, and that 
Miss Blimber went in front, and had the pickaxe ! ” 

Miss Nipper then took breath, and went on faster 
than before, as if this extraordinary aspiration had re- 
lieved her. Walter, who had by this time no breath 
of his own to spare, hurried along without asking any 
more questions ; and they soon, in their impatience, 
burst in at a little door and came into a clean parlor 
full of children. 

“ Where’s Mrs. Richards ! ” exclaimed Susan Nipper, 
looking round. “ Oh Mrs. Richards, Mrs. Richards, 
come along with me, my dear creetur ! ” 

“Why, if it a’n’t Susan!” cried Polly rising with 
her honest face and motherly figure from among the 
group, in great surprise. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Richards, it’s me, ” said Susan, “ and I 
wish it wasn’t, though I may not seem to flatter when 
J say so, but little Master Paul is very ill, and told 
his Pa to-day that he would like to see the face of 
his old nurse, and him and Miss Floy hope you’ll come 
along with me — and Mr. Walter, Mrs. Richards — 
forgetting what is past, and do a kindness to the sweet 
dear that is withering away. Oh, Mrs. Richards, with- 
ering away ! ” Susan Nipper crying, Polly shed tears 
to see her, and to hear what she had said ; and all 
the children gathered round (including numbers of 
new babies) ; and Mr. Toodle who had just come home 
from Birmingham, and was eating his dinner out of a 
basin, laid down his knife and fork, and put on his 
wife’s bonnet and shawl for her, which were hanging 
up behind the door ; then tapped her on the back ; 
and said with more fatherly feeling than eloquence, 
u Polly ! cut away ! ” 

VOL. n> 


21 


322 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


So they got back to the coach, long before the coach- 
man expected them ; and Walter putting Susan and 
Mrs. Richards inside, took his seat on the box himself 
that there might be no more mistakes, and deposited 
them safely in the hall of Mr. Dombey’s house — where, 
by the by, he saw a mighty nosegay lying, which re- 
mi .ded him of the one Captain Cuttle had purchased 
in his company that morning. He would have lingered 
to know more of the young invalid, or waited any 
length of time to see if he could render the least ser- 
vice ; but, painfully sensible that such conduct would 
be looked upon by Mr. Dombey as presumptuous and 
forward, he turned slowly, sadly, anxiously, away. 

He had not gone five minutes’ walk from the door, 
when a man came running after him, and begged him 
to return. Walter retraced his steps as quickly as he 
could, and entered the gloomy house with a sorrowful 
foreboding. 












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"First appearance of IBrniaby 


t nap. 




DOMBEY AND SON 


VOLUME n. 
























































DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

WHAT THE WAVES WERE ALWAYS SAYING. 

Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay 
there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tran- 
quilly ; not caring much how the time went, but watch- 
ing it and watching everything about him with observing 
eyes. 

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the 
rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like 
golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and 
that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection 
died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he 
watched it deepen, deepen, deepen, into night. Then 
he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, 
and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His 
fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, 
which he knew was flowing through the great city : and 
now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would 
look, reflecting the hosts of stars — and more than all, 
how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. 

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the 
street became so rare that he could hear them coming, 
count them as they paused, and lose them in the hollow 


8 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


distance, he would lie and watch the many-colored ring 
about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only 
trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, 
sometimes, to try to stop it — to stem it with his childish 
hands — or choke its way with sand — and when he saw 
it coming on, resistless, he cried out ! But a word from 
Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to 
himself ; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he 
told Floy of his dream, and smiled. 

When day began to dawn again, he watched for 
the sun ; and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in 
the room, he pictured to himself — pictured ! he saw — • 
the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, 
the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, 
the river, glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), 
and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and 
cries came by degrees into the street below ; the servants 
in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in at 
the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he 
was. Paul always answered for himself, “ I am better. 
I am a great deal better, thank you ! Tell papa so ! ” 

By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the 
day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing 
and re-passing ; and would fall asleep, or be troubled 
with a restless and uneasy sense again — the child could 
hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his 
waking moments — of that rushing river. “ Why, will 
it never stop, Floy ? ” he would sometimes ask her. “ It 
is bearing me away, I think ! ” 

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and 
it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down 
on his pillow, and take some rest. 

“ You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


9 


you, now ! ” They would prop him up with cushions in 
a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while 
she lay beside him : bending forward oftentimes to kiss 
her, and whispering to those who were near that she was 
tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside 
him. 

Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would 
gradually decline ; and again the golden water would be 
dancing on the wall. 

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors — 
they used to assemble down stairs, and come up together 
— and the room was so quiet, and Paul was so observant 
of them (though he never asked of anybody what they 
said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of 
their watches. But his interest centred in Sir Parker 
Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. 
For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentle- 
man had been with his mama when she clasped Florence 
in her arms, and died. And he could not forget it, now. 
He liked him for it. He was not afraid. 

The people round him changed as unaccountably as 
on that first night at Doctor Blimber’s — except Flor- 
ence ; Florence never changed — and what had been 
Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his 
head upon his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin dozing in an 
easy chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or his aunt ; and 
Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see 
what happened next without emotion. But this figure 
with its head upon its hand returned so often, and re- 
mained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speak- 
ing, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, 
that Paul began to wonder languidly, if it were real; 
and in the night-time saw it sitting there, with fear. 


10 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Floy ! ” be said. “ What is that ? ” 

“ Where, dearest ? ” 
a There ! at the bottom of the bed.” 

“ There’s nothing there, except papa ? ” 

The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming 
to the bedside, said : “ My own boy ! Don’t you know 
me ? ” 

Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his 
father? But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled 
while he gazed, as if it were in pain ; and before he 
could reach out both his hands to take it between them, 
and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly 
from the little bed, and went out at the door. 

Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he 
knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with 
his face against her lips. The next time he observed 
the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it. 

“ Don’t be so sorry for me, dear papa ! Indeed I am 
quite happy ! ” 

His father coming, and bending down to him — which 
he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside 
— Paul held him round the neck, and repeated those 
words to him several times, and very earnestly ; and 
Paul never saw him in his room again at any time, 
whether it were day or night, but he called out, “ Don’t 
be so sorry for me ! Indeed I am quite happy ! ’’ This 
was the beginning of his always saying in the morning 
that he was a great deal better, and that they were to 
tell his father so. 

How many times the golden water danced upon the 
wall ; how many nights the dark, dark river rolled towards 
die sea in spite of him ; Paul never counted, never 
Bought to know. If their kindness or his sense of it, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


11 


could have increased, they were more kind, and he more 
grateful every day ; but whether they were many days 
or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. 

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and 
her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had 
thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than 
his father did, to have held her in her arms when she 
felt that she was dying — for even he, her brother, who 
had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish 
than that. The train of thought suggested to him to 
inquire if he had ever seen his mother ? for he could 
not remember whether they had told him yes or no, the 
river running very fast, and confusing his mind. 

“ Floy, did I ever see mama ? ” 

“ No, darling, why ? ” 

“ Did I never see any kind face, like mama’s, looking 
at me when I was a baby, Floy ? ” 

He asked, incredulously as if he had some vision of 
a face before him. 

“ Oh yes, dear ! ” 

“ Whose, Floy ? ” 

“ Your old nurse’s. Often.” 

“ And where is my old nurse ! ” said Paul. “ Is she 
dead too ? Floy, are we all dead, except you ? ” 

There was a hurry in the room for an instant — 
longer, perhaps ; but it seemed no more — then all was 
still again ; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, 
but smiling, held his head upm her arm. Her arm 
trembled very much. 

“ Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please ! ” 

“ She is not here, darling. She shall come to-mor- 
row.” 

“ Thank you, Floy ! ” 


12 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. 
When he awoke the sun was high, and the broad day 
was clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the 
windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in 
the air, and waving to and fro : then he said, “ Floy, 
is it to-morrow ? Is she come ? ” 

Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it 
was Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him 
when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon 
be back ; but he did not open them to see. She kept 
her word — perhaps she had never been away — but the 
next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the 
stairs, and then Paul woke — woke mind and body — 
and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about 
him. There was no gray mist before them, as there had 
been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, 
and called them by their names. 

“And who is this? Is this my old nurse?” said the 
child, regarding with a radiant smile, a figure coming 
in. 

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those 
tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, 
her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other 
woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken 
up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, 
as one who had some right to fondle it. No other 
woman would have so forgotten everybody there but 
him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. 

“ Floy ! this is a kind good face ! ” said Paul. “ I 
am glad to see it again. Don’t go away, old nurse ! 
Stay here ! ” 

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name 
he knew. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


13 


"Who was that, who said ‘Walter-?” he asked, 
looking round. "Some one said Walter. Is he here? 
I should like to see him very much. ” 

Nobody replied directly ; but his father soon said to 
Susan, " Call him back, then : let him come up ! ” Af- 
ter a short pause of expectation, during which he looked 
with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and saw 
that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought 
into the room. His open face and manner, and his 
cheerful eyes, had always made him a favorite with 
Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched out his 
hand, and said, “ Good-by ! ” 

" Good-by, my child ! ” cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying 
to his bed’s head. “ Not good-by ! ” 

For an instant Paul looked at her with the wist- 
ful face with which he had so often gazed upon her 
in his corner by the fire. "Ah yes,” he said, plac- 
idly, “ good-by ! Walter dear, good-by ! ” — turning his 
head to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. 
" Where is papa ? ” 

He felt his father’s breath upon his cheek, before 
the words had parted from his lips. 

" Remember Walter, dear papa,” he whispered, look- 
ing in his face. “ Remember Walter. I was fond of 
Walter!” The feeble hand waved in the air, as if it 
cried "good-by!” to Walter once again. 

“ Now lay me down, ” he said, “ and Floy, come close 
♦o me, and let me see you ! ” 

Sister and brother wound their arms around each 
other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell 
upon them, locked together. 

“ How fast the river runs, between its green banks 
and the rushes, Floy ! But it’s very near the sea 
I hear the waves ! They always said so ! ” 


14 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Presently lie told her that the motion of the boat 
upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green 
the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing 
on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was 
out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there 
was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank ! — 

He put his hands together, as he had been used to 
do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do 
it ; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck. 

“ Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face ! 
But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is 
not divine enough. The light about the head is shin- 
ing on me as I go ! ” 

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and 
nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion ! 
The fashion that came in with our first garments, and 
will last unchanged until our race has run its course, 
and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The 
old, old fashion — Death ! 

Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion 
yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young 
children, with regards not quite estranged, when the 
swift river bears us to the ocean ! 


DOM BE r AND SON. 


15 


CHAPTER XVII. 

(J APT AH CUTTLE DOES A LITTLE BUSINESS FOR THE 
YOUNG PEOPLE. 

Captain Cuttle, in the exercise of that surprising 
talent for deep-laid and unfathomable scheming, with 
which (as is not unusual in men of transparent sim- 
plicity) he sincerely believed himself to be endowed by 
nature, had gone to Mr. Dombey’s house on the eventful 
Sunday, winking all the way as a .vent for his super- 
fluous sagacity, and had presented himself in the full 
lustre of the ankle-jacks before the eyes of Towlinson. 
Hearing from that individual, to his great concern, of 
the impending calamity, Captain Cuttle, in his delicacy, 
sheered off again confounded ; merely handing in the 
nosegay as a small mark of his solicitude, and leaving 
his respectful compliments for the family in general, 
which he accompanied with an expression of his hope 
that they would lay their heads well to the wind un- 
der existing circumstances, and a friendly intimaticn 
that he would “ look up again ” to-morrow. 

The captain’s compliments were never heard of any 
more. The captain’s nosegay, after lying in the hall 
all night, was swept into the dust-bin next morning ; 
and the captain’s sly arrangement, involved in one catas- 
trophe with greater hopes and loftier designs, was crushed 
to pieces. So, when an avalanche bears down a moun 


16 


DOMBEY AND SON 


tain-forest, twigs and bashes suffer with the trees, and 
all perish together. 

When Walter returned home on the Sunday even- 
ing from his long walk, and its memorable close, he 
was too much occupied at first by the tidings he had 
to give them, and by the emotions naturally aw r akened 
in his breast by the scene through which he had passed, 
to observe either that his uncle was evidently unac- 
quainted with the intelligence the captain had under- 
taken to impart, or that the captain made signals with 
his hook, warning him to avoid the subject. Not that 
the captain’s signals were calculated to have proved very 
comprehensible, however attentively observed ; for, like 
those Chinese sages who are said in their conferences to 
write certain learned words in the air that are wholly 
impossible of pronunciation, the captain made such waves 
and flourishes as nobody without a previous knowledge 
of his mystery, would have been at all likely to un- 
derstand. 

Captain Cuttle, however, becoming cognizant of what 
had happened, relinquished these attempts, as he per- 
ceived the slender chance that now existed of his being 
able to obtain a little easy chat with Mr. Dombey be- 
fore the period of Walter’s departure. But in admitting 
to himself, with a disappointed and crest-fallen counte- 
nance, that Sol Gills must be told, and that Walter 
must go — taking the case for the present as he found 
it, and not having it enlightened or improved beforehand 
by the knowing management of a friend — the captain 
still felt an unabated confidence that he, Ned Cuttle, 
was the man for Mr. Dombey ; and that, to set Walter’s 
fortunes quite square, nothing was wanted but that they 
two should come together. For the captain never could 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


17 


forget how well he and Mr. Dombey had got on at Bright 
ton ; with what nicety each of them had put in a word when 
it was wanted ; how exactly they had taken one anoth- 
er’s measure ; nor how Ned Cuttle had pointed out that 
resource in the first extremity, and had brought the in- 
terview to the desired termination. On all these grounds 
the captain soothed himself with thinking that though 
Ned Cuttle was forced by the pressure of events to 
“ stand by ” almost useless for the present, Ned would 
fetch up with a wet sail in good time, and carry all 
before him. 

Under the influence of this good-natured delusion, 
Captain Cuttle even went so far as to revolve in his own 
bosom, while he sat looking at Walter and listening 
with a tear on his shirt-collar to what he related, whether 
it might not be at once genteel and polite to give Mr. 
Dombey a verbal invitation, whenever they should meet, 
to come and cut his mutton in Brig Place on some 
day of his own naming, and enter on the question of his 
young friend’s prospects over a social glass. But the 
uncertain temper of Mrs. MacStinger, and the possi- 
bility of her setting up her rest in the passage during 
such an entertainment, and there delivering some hom- 
ily of an uncomplimentary nature, operated as a check 
on the captain’s hospitable thoughts, and rendered him 
timid of giving them encouragement. 

One fact was quite clear to the captain, as Walter, 
sitting thoughtfully over his untasted dinner, dwelt on 
all that had happened; namely, that however Walter’s 
modesty might stand in the way of his perceiving it 
himself, he was, as one might say, a member of Mr. 
Dombey’s family. He had been, in his own person, 
connected with the incident he so pathetically described; 

VOL. II. 2 


18 


DOMBE? AND SON. 


he had been by name remembered and commended in 
close association with it; and his fortunes must have 
a particular interest in his employer’s eyes. If the 
captain had any lurking doubt whatever of his own 
conclusions, he had not the least doubt that they were 
good conclusions for the peace of mind of the instru- 
ment-maker. Therefore he availed himself of so favor- 
able a moment for breaking the West Indian intelligence 
to his old friend, as a piece of extraordinary preferment ; 
declaring that for his part he would freely give a hun- 
dred thousand pounds (if he had it) for Walter’s gain 
in the long-run, and that he had no doubt such an 
investment would yield a handsome premium. 

Solomon Gills was at first stunned by the commu- 
nication, which fell upon the little back-parlor like a 
thunderbolt, and tore up the hearth savagely. But the 
captain flashed such golden prospects before his dim 
sight: hinted so mysteriously at Whittingtonian conse- 
quences: laid such emphasis on what Walter had just 
now told them : and appealed to it so confidently as a 
corroboration of his predictions, and a great advance 
towards the realization of the romantic legend of Lovely 
Peg: that he bewildered the old man. Walter, for his 
part, feigned to be so full of hope and ardor, and so 
sure of coming home again soon, and backed up the 
captain with such expressive shakings of his head and 
rubbings of his hands, that Solomon, looking first at him 
and then at Captain Cuttle, began to think he ought 
to be transported with joy. 

“ But T m behind the time, you understand,” he ob- 
served in apology, passing his hand nervously down 
the whole row of bright buttons on his coat, and then 
up again, as if they were beads and he were telling 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


19 


them twice over : “ and I would rather nave my dear 
boy here. It's an old-fashioned notion, I dare say. He 
was always fond of the sea. He’s ” — and he looked 
wistfully at Walter — “he’s glad to go.” 

“ Uncle Sol ! ” cried Walter, quickly, “ if you say 
that, I won't go. No, Captain Cuttle, I won’t. If my 
uncle thinks I could be glad to leave him, though I 
was going to be made Governor of all the Islands in 
the West Indies, that’s enough. I’m a fixture.” 

“ Wal’r, my lad,” said the captain. “ Steady ! Sol 
Gills, take an observation of your nevy.” 

Following with his eyes the majestic action of tho 
captain’s hook, the old man looked at Walter. 

“ Here is a certain craft,” said the captain, with a 
magnificent sense of the allegory into which he was 
soaring, “ a-going to put out on a certain voyage. What 
name is wrote upon that craft indelibly? Is it The 
Gay? or,” said the captain, raising his voice as much 
as to say, observe the point of this, “ is it The Gills ? ” 

“ Ned,” said the old man, drawing Walter to his side, 
and taking his arm tenderly through his, “ I know. 
I know. Of course I know that Wally considers me 
more than himself always. That’s in my mind. When 
I say he is glad to go, I mean I hope he is. Eh ? 
look you, Ned, and you too, Wally, my dear, this is 
new and unexpected to me; and I’m afraid my being 
behind the time, and poor, is at the bottom of it. Is 
it really good fortune for him, do you tell me, now ? ” 
said the old man, looking anxiously from one to the 
other. “ Really and truly ? I can reconcile myself to 
almost anything that advances Wally, but I won’t have 
Wally putting himself at any disadvantage for me, or 
keeping anything from me. You, Ned Cuttle!” said 


20 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the old man, fastening on the captain, to the manifest 
confusion of that diplomatist ; “ are you dealing plainly 
by your old friend? Speak out, Ned Cuttle. Is there 
anything behind ? Ought he to go ? How do you 
know it first, and why ? ” 

As it was a contest of affection and self-denial, Walter 
struck in with infinite effect, to the captain’s relief ; 
and between them they tolerably reconciled old Sol 
Gills, by continued talking, to the project; or rather 
so confused him, that nothing, not even the pain of 
separation, was distinctly clear to his mind. 

He had not much time to balance the matter ; for 
on the very next day, Walter received from Mr. Carker 
the manager, the necessary credentials for his passage 
and outfit, together with the information that the Son 
and Heir would sail in a fortnight, or within a day or 
two afterwards at latest. In the hurry of preparation : 
which Walter purposely enhanced as much as possible : 
the old man lost what little self-possession he ever had ; 
and so the time of departure drew on rapidly. 

The captain, who did not fail to make himself ac- 
quainted with all that passed, through inquiries of Wal- 
ter from day to day, found the time still tending on 
towards his going away, without any occasion offering 
itself, or seeming likely to offer itself, for a better under- 
standing of his position. It was after much considera- 
tion of this fact, and much pondering over such an un- 
fortunate combination of circumstances, that a bright 
idea occurred to the captain. Suppose he made a call 
on Mr. Carker, and tried to find out from him how the 
land really lay ! 

Captain Cuttle liked this idea very much. It came 
npon him in a moment of inspiration, as he was smoking 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


21 


an early pipe in Brig-place after breakfast ; and it was 
worthy of the tobacco. It would quiet his conscience, 
which was an honest one, and was-made a little uneasy by 
what Walter had confided to him, and what Sol Gills 
had said ; and it would be a deep, shrewd act of friend- 
ship. He would sound Mr. Carker carefully, and say 
much or little, just as he read that gentleman’s character, 
and discovered that they got on well together or the 
reverse. 

Accordingly, without the fear of Walter before his 
eyes (who he knew was at home packing), Captain 
Cuttle again assumed his ankle-jacks and mourning 
brooch, and issued forth on this second expedition. He 
purchased no propitiatory nosegay on the present occa- 
sion, as he was going to a place of business ; but he put 
a small sunflower in his button-hole to give himself an 
agreeable relish of the country ; and with this, and the 
knobby stick, and the glazed hat, bore down upon the 
offices of Dombey and Son. 

After taking a glass of warm rum-and-water at a 
tavern close by, to collect his thoughts, the captain made 
a rush down the court lest its good effects should evapo- 
rate, and appeared suddenly to Mr. Perch. 

“ Matey,” said the captain, in persuasive accents. 
u One of your governors is named Carker.” 

Mr. Perch admitted it ; but gave him to understand* 
as in official duty bound, that all his governors were en- 
gaged, and never expected to be disengaged any more. 

“ Look’ee here, mate,” said the captain in his ear ; 
“my name’s Cap’en Cuttle.” 

The captain would have hooked Perch gently to him, 
but Mr. Perch eluded the attempt ; not so much in de- 
sign, as in starting at the sudden thought that such a 


22 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


weapon unexpectedly exhibited to Mrs. Perch might, in 
her then condition, be destructive to that lady’s hopes. 

“If you’ll be so good as just report Cap’en Cuttle 
here, when you get a chance,” said the captain, “ I’ll 
wait.” 

Saying which, the captain took his seat on Mr. Perch’s 
bracket, and drawing out his handkerchief from the 
crown of the glazed hat, which he jammed between his 
knees (without injury to its shape, for nothing human 
could bend it), rubbed his head well all over, and ap- 
peared refreshed. He subsequently arranged his hair 
with his hook, and sat looking round the office, contem- 
plating the clerks with a serene aspect. 

The captain’s equanimity was so impenetrable, and he 
was altogether so mysterious a being, that Perch the 
messenger was daunted. 

“ What name was it you said ? ” asked Mr. Perch, 
bending down over him as he sat on the bracket. 

“ Cap’en,” in a deep hoarse whisper. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Perch, keeping time with his head. 

“ Cuttle.” 

“ Oh 1 ” said Mr. Perch, in the same tone, for he 
caught it, and cpuldn’t help it ; the captain, in his 
diplomacy, w r as so impressive. “ I’ll see if he’s dis- 
engaged now. I don’t know. Perhaps he may be for 
a minute.” 

u Ay, ay, my lad, I won’t detain him longer than a 
minute,” said the captain, nodding with all the weighty 
importance that he felt within him. Perch, soon return- 
ing, said, “ Will Captain Cuttle walk this way ? ” 

Mr. Carker the manager, standing on the hearth-rug 
before the empty fire-place, which was ornamented 
with a castellated sheet of brown paper, looked at the 


DOMBEY VND SON. 


23 


captain as he came in, with no very special encourage- 
ment. 

“ Mr. Carker ? ” said Captain Cuttle. 

“ I believe so,” said Mr. Carker, showing all his 
teeth. 

The captain liked his answering with a smile : it 
looked pleasant. “You see,” began the captain, roll- 
ing his eyes slowly round the little room, and taking 
in as much of it as his shirt-collar permitted ; “ I'm 
a seafaring man myself, Mr. Carker, and Wal’r, as is 
on your books here, is a’most a son of mine.” 

“Walter Gay?” said Mr. Carker, showing all his 
teeth again. 

“Wal’r Gay it is,” replied the captain, “right!” 
The captain’s manner expressed a warm approval of 
Mr. Carker’s quickness of perception. “ I’m a intimate 
friend of his and his uncle’s. Perhaps,” said the cap- 
tain, “ you may have heard your head-governor mention 
my name ? — Captain Cuttle.” 

“ No ! ” said Mr. Carker, with a still wider demonstra- 
tion than before. 

“Well,” resumed the captain, “ I’ve the pleasure of 
his acquaintance. I waited upon him down on the Sus- 
sex coast there, with my young friend Wal’r, when — in 
short, when there was a little accommodation wanted.” 
The captain nodded his head in a manner that was at 
once comfortable, easy, and expressive. “ You remem- 
ber, I dare say ? ” 

“ I think,” said Mr. Carker, “ I had the honor of ar- 
ranging the business.” 

“ To be sure ! ” returned the captain. “ Right again ! 
you had. Now I’ve took the liberty of coming here ” — 

“ Won’t you sit down ? ” said Mr. Carker, smiling. 


24 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Thank’ee,” returned the captain, availing himself of 
the offer. 44 A man does get more way upon himself, 
perhaps, in his conversation, when he sits down. Won’t 
you take a cheer yourself ? ” 

“ No thank you,” said the manager, standing, perhaps 
from the force of winter habit, with his back against the 
chimney-piece, and looking down upon the captain with 
an eye in every tooth and gum. 44 You have taken the 
liberty, you were going to say — though it’s none ” — 

“ Thank’ee kindly, my lad,” returned the captain : 
4 of coming here, on account of my friend Wal’r. Sol 
Gills, his uncle, is a man of science, and in science he 
may be considered a clipper ; but he a’n’t what I should 
altogether call a able seaman — not a man of practice. 
Wal’r is as trim a lad as ever stepped; but he’s a little 
down by the head in one respect, and that is modesty. 
Now what I should wish to put to you,” said the captain, 
lowering his voice, and speaking in a kind of confidential 
growl, “ in a friendly way, entirely between you and 
me, and for my own private reckoning, till your head 
governor has wore round a bit, and I can come along- 
side of him, is this. — Is everything right and comforta- 
ble here, and is Wal’r out’ard bound with a pretty fair 
wind?” * 

“ What do you think now, Captain Cuttle,” returned 
Carker, gathering up his skirts and settling himself in 
his position. 44 You are a practical man ; what do you 
think ? ” 

The acuteness and significance of the captain’s eye, 
as he cocked it in reply, no words short of those unut- 
terable Chinese words before referred to could describe. 

44 Come ! ” said the captain, unspeakably encouraged 
44 what do you say ? Am I right or wrong ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


25 


So much had the captain expressed in his eye, em- 
holdened and incited by Mr. Carker’s smiling urbanity, 
that he felt himself in as fair a condition to put the ques- 
tion, as if he had expressed his sentiments .with the ut- 
most elaboration. 

“ Right,” said Mr. Carker, “ I have no doubt.” 

“ Out’ard bound with fair weather, then, I say,” cried 
Captain Cuttle. • 

Mr. Carker smiled assent. 

“ Wind right astarn, and plenty of it,” pursued the 
captain. 

Mr. Carker smiled assent again. 

“ Ay, ay ! ” said Captain Cuttle, greatly relieved and 
pleased. “ I know’d how she headed, well enough ; I 
told Wal’r so. Tliank’ee, thank’ee.” 

“ Gay has brilliant prospects,” observed Mr. Carker, 
stretching his mouth wider yet ; “ all the world before 
him.” 

“ All the world and his wife too, as the saying is,” 
returned the delighted captain. 

At the word “ wife ” (which he had uttered without 
design), the captain stopped, cocked his eye again, and 
putting the glazed hat on the top of the knobby stick, 
gave it a twirl, and looked sideways at his always smiling 
friend. 

u I’d bet a gill of old Jamaica,” said the captain, ey- 
ing him attentively, “ that I know what you’re smiling 
at.” 

Mr. Carker took his cue, and smiled the more. 

“ It goes no farther ? ” said the captain, making a poke 
at the door with the knobby stick to assure himself that 
it was shut. 

“ Not an inch,” said Mr. Carker. 


26 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ You’re a-thinking of a capital F perhaps ? ” said the 
captain. 

Mr. Carker didn’t deny it. 

“ Anything about a L,” said the captain, “ or a O ? ” 

Mr. Carker still smiled. 

“Am I right again?” inquired the captain in a whis- 
per, with the scarlet circle on his forehead, swelling in 
his triumphant joy* 

Mr. Carker, in reply, still smiling, and now nodding 
assent, Captain Cuttle rose and squeezed him by the 
hand, assuring him, warmly, that they were on the 
same tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his 
course that way all along. “ He know’d her first,” 
said the captain, with all the secrecy and gravity that 
the subject demanded, “ in an uncommon manner — 
you remember his finding her in the street, when she 
was a’most a babby — he has liked her ever since, and 
she him, as much as two such youngsters can. We’ve 
always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut out 
for each other.” 

A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death’s-head, 
could not have shown the captain more teeth at one 
time, than Mr. Carker showed him at this period of 
their interview. 

“There’s a general in-draught that way,” observed 
the happy captain. “ Wind and water sets in that direc- 
lion, you see. Look at his being present t’other day!” 

“ Most favorable to his hopes,” said Mr. Carker. 

“ Look at his being towed along in the wake of that 
day ! ” pursued the captain. “ Why what can cut him 
adrift now?” 

“ Nothing,” replied Mr. Carker. 

“You’re right again,” returned the captain, giving his 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


27 


hand another squeeze. “ Nothing it is. So ! steady ! 
There’s a son gone : pretty little creetur. A’n’t there ? ” 

“ Yes, there’s a son gone,” said the acquiescent Carker. 

“ Pass the word, and there’s another ready for you,” 
quoth the captain. “ Nevy of a scientific uncle ! Nevy 
of Sol Gills ! Wal’r ! Wal’r, as is already in your 
business ! And ” — said the captain, rising gradually 
to a quotation he was preparing for a final burst, “ who 

— comes from Sol Gills’s daily, to your business, and 
your buzzums.” 

The captain’s complacency as he gently jogged Mr. 
Carker with his elbow, on concluding each of the fore- 
going short sentences, could be surpassed by nothing 
but the exultation with which he fell back and eyed 
him when he had finished this brilliant display of elo- 
quence and sagacity ; his great blue waistcoat heaving 
with the throes of such a masterpiece, and his nose in 
a state of violent inflammation from the same cause. 

“ Am I right ? ” said the captain. 

“ Captain Cuttle,” said Mr. Carker, bending down 
at the knees, for a moment, in an odd manner, as if 
he were falling together to hug the whole of himself 
at once, “your views in reference to Walter Gay are 
thoroughly and accurately right. I understand that we 
6peak together in confidence.” 

“ Honor ! ” interposed the captain, “ not a word.” 

“To him or any one?” pursued the manager. 

Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head. 

“ But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance 

— and guidance, of course,” repeated Mr. Carker, “ with 
a view to your future proceedings.” 

“Thank’ee kindly, I am sure,” said the captain, listen 
ing with great attention. 


28 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ I have no hesitation in saying, that’s the fact. You 
have hit the probabilities exactly.” 

u And with regard to your head governor,” said the 
captain, “ why an interview had better come about nat’- 
ral between us. There’s time enough.” 

Mr. Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, 
“ Time enough.” Not articulating the words, but bow- 
ing his head affably, and forming them with his tongue 
and lips. 

“ And as I know now — it’s what I always said — 
that Wal’r’s in the way to make his fortune,” said the 
captain. 

“ To make his fortune,” Mr. Carker repeated, in the 
same dumb manner. 

“ And as Wal’r’s going on this little voyage is, as 
I may say, in his day’s work, and a part of his general 
expectations here,” said the captain. 

“ Of his general expectations here,” assented Mr. Car- 
ker, dumbly as before. 

“ Why, so long as I know that,” pursued the captain, 
“there’s no hurry, and my mind’s at ease.” 

Mr. Carker still blandly assenting in the same voice- 
less manner, Captain Cuttle was strongly confirmed in 
his opinion that he was one of the most agreeable men 
he had ever met, and that even Mr. Dombey might 
improve himself on such a model. With great hearti- 
ness, therefore, the captain once again extended his 
enormous hand (not unlike an old block in color), and 
gave him a grip that left upon his smoother flesh a 
proof impression of the chinks and crevices with which 
the captain’s palm was liberally tattooed. 

“Farewell!” said the captain. “I a’n’t a man of 
many words, but I take it very kind of you to be so 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


29 


friendly, and above-board. You’ll excuse me if I’ve 
been at all intruding, will you ? ” said the captain. 

“ Not at all,” returned the other. 

“Thank’ee. My berth aVt very roomy,” said the 
captain, turning back again, “ but it’s tolerably snug ; 
and if you was to find yourself near Brig-place, num- 
ber nine, at any time — will you make a note of it ? 
— and would come up-stairs, without minding what was 
said by the person at the door, I should be proud to 
see you.” 

With that hospitable invitation, the captain said u Good 
day,” and walked out and shut the door; leaving Mr. 
Carker still reclining against the chimney-piece. In 
whose sly look and watchful manner; in whose false 
mouth stretched but not laughing ; in whose spotless 
cravat and very whiskers ; even in whose silent passing 
of his soft hand over his white linen and his smooth 
face ; there was something desperately cat-like. 

The unconscious captain walked out in a state of 
self-glorification that imparted quite a new cut to the 
broad blue suit. “ Stand by Ned ! ” said the captain 
to himself. “ You’ve done a little business for the young- 
sters to-day, my lad ! ” 

In his exultation, and in his familiarity, present and 
prospective, with the House, the captain, when he reached 
the outer office, could not refrain from rallying Mr. Perch 
a little, and asking him whether he thought everybody 
was still engaged. But not to be bitter on a man who 
had done his duty, the captain whispered in his ear, that 
if he felt disposed for a glass of rum-and-water, and 
would follow, he would be happy to bestow the same 
upon him. 

Before leaving the premises, the captain, somewhat 


30 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to the astonishment of the clerks, looked round from 
a central point of view, and took a general survey of 
the office as part and parcel of a project in which his 
young friend was nearly interested. The strong-room 
excited his especial admiration ; but, that he might not 
appear too particular, he limited himself to an approving 
glance, and, with a graceful recognition of the clerks 
as a body, that was full of politeness and patronage, 
passed out into court. Being promptly joined by Mr. 
Perch, he conveyed that gentleman to the tavern, and 
fulfilled his pledge — hastily, for Perch’s time was pre- 
cious. 

“ I’ll give you for a toast,” said the captain, “ Wal'r ! ” 

“ Who ? ” submitted Mr. Perch. 

“ Wal’r ! ” repeated the captain, in a voice of thunder. 

Mr. Perch, who seemed to remember having heard 
in infancy that there was once a poet of that name, 
made no objection ; but he was much astonished at the 
captain’s coming into the city to propose a poet ; indeed 
if he had proposed to put a poet’s statue up — - say Shak- 
speare’s for example — in a civic thoroughfare, he could 
hardly have done a greater outrage to Mr. Perch’s ex- 
perience. On the whole, he was such a mysterious and 
incomprehensible character, that Mr. Perch decided not 
to mention him to Mrs. Perch at all, in case of giving 
rise to any disagreeable consequences. 

Mysterious and incomprehensible, the captain, with 
that lively sense upon him of having done a little busi- 
ness for the youngsters, remained all day, even to his 
most intimate friends ; and but that Walter attributed 
his winks and grins, and other such pantomimic reliefs 
of himself, to his satisfaction in the success of their 
innocent deception upon old Sol Gills, he would assur 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


31 


edly have betrayed himself before night. As it was, 
however, he kept his own secret ; and went home late 
from the instrument-maker’s house, wearing the glazed 
hat so much on one side, and carrying such a beam- 
ing expression in his eyes, that Mrs. MacStinger (who 
might have been brought up at Doctor Blimber’s, she 
was such a Roman matron) fortified herself, at the first 
glimpse of him, behind the open street-door, and refused 
to come out to the contemplation of her blessed infants, 
until he was securely lodged in his own room. 


32 


DOMBEY AND SON 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

FATHER AN D DAUGHTER. 

There is a hush through Mr. Dombey’s house. Ser- 
vants gliding up and down stairs rustle but make no 
sound of footsteps. They talk together constantly, and 
sit long at meals, making much of their meat and drink, 
and enjoying themselves after a grim unholy fashion. 
Mrs. Wickam, with her eyes suffused with tears, relates 
melancholy anecdotes; and tells them how she always 
said at Mrs. Pipchin’s that it would be so, and takes 
more table-ale than usual, and is very sorry but soci- 
able. Cook’s state of mind is similar. She promises a 
little fry for supper, and struggles about equally against 
her feelings and the onions. Towlinson begins to think 
there’s a fate in it, and wants to know if anybody can 
tell him of any good that ever came of living in a cor- 
ner house. It seems to all of them as having happened 
a long time ago ; though yet the child lies, calm and 
beautiful, upon his little bed. 

After dark there come some visitors — noiseless visit- 
ors, with shoes of felt — who have been there before ; 
and with them comes that bed of rest which is so strange 
a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the bereaved 
father has not been seen even by his attendant ; for he 
sits in a corner of his own dark room when any one is 
there, and never seems to move at other times, except to 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


33 


pace it to and fro. But in the morning it is whispered 
among the household that he was heard to go up-stairs 
in the dead night, and that he stayed there — in the 
room — until the sun was shining. 

At the offices in the city, the ground-glass windows 
are made more dim by shutters ; and while the lighted 
lamps upon the desks are half-extinguished by the day 
that wanders in, the day is half-extinguished by the 
lamps, and an unusual gloom prevails. There is not 
much business done. The clerks are indisposed to work ; 
and they make assignations to eat chops in the afternoon, 
and go up the river. Perch, the messenger, stays long 
upon his errands ; and finds himself in bars of public- 
houses, invited thither by friends, and holding forth on 
the uncertainty of human affairs. He goes home to 
Ball’s Pond earlier in the evening than usual, and treats 
Mrs. Perch to a veal cutlet and Scotch ale. Mr. Carker 
the manager treats no one ; neither is he treated ; but 
alone in his own room he shows his teeth all day ; and 
it would seem that there is something gone from Mr. 
Carker’s path — some obstacle removed — which clears 
his way before him. 

Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr. Dom- 
bey’s house, peep from their nursery windows down into 
the street ; for there are four black horses at his door, 
with feathers on their heads ; and feathers tremble on 
the carriage that they draw ; and these, and an array of 
men with scarfs and staves, attract a crowd. The jug- 
gler who was going to twirl the basin, puts his loose coat 
on again over his fine dress ; and his trudging wife, one- 
sided with her heavy baby in her arms, loiters to see 
the company come out. But closer to her dingy breast 
she presses her baby, when the burden that is so easily 

VO!,, u. 3 


34 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


carried is borne forth ; and the youngest of the rosy 
children at the high window opposite, needs no re- 
straining hand to check her in her glee, when, point- 
ing with her dimpled finger, she looks into her nurse’s 
face, and asks “ What’s that ! ” 

And now, among the knot of servants dressed in 
mourning, and the weeping women, Mr. Dombey passes 
through the hall to the other carriage that is waiting to 
receive him. He is not “ brought down,” these observers 
think, by sorrow and distress of mind. His walk is as 
erect, his bearing is as stiff as ever it has been. He 
hides his face behind no handkerchief, and looks before 
him. But that his face is something sunk and rigid, and 
is pale, it bears the same expression as of old. He 
takes his place within the carriage, and three other 
gentlemen follow. Then the grand funeral moves slowly 
down the street. The feathers are yet nodding in the 
distance, when the juggler has the basin spinning on a 
cane, and has the same crowd to admire it. But the 
juggler’s wife is less alert than usual with the money- 
box, for a child’s burial has set her thinking that per- 
haps the baby underneath her shabby shawl may not 
grow up to be a man, and wear a sky-blue fillet round 
his head, and salmon-colored worsted drawers, and tum- 
ble in the mud. 

The feathers wind their gloomy way along the streets, 
and come within the sound of a church-bell. In this 
same church, the pretty boy received all that will soon 
be left of him on earth — a name. All of him that is 
dead, they lay there, near the perishable substance of his 
mother. It is well. Their ashes lie where Florence 
in her walks — oh lonely, lonely walks ! — may pass 
them any day. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


35 


The service over, and the clergyman withdrawn, Mr. 
Dombey looks round, demanding in a low voice, wheth- 
er the person who has been requested to attend to re- 
ceive instructions for the tablet, is there ? 

Some one comes forward, and says “ Yes.” 

Mr. Dombey intimates where he would have it placed ; 
and shows him, with his hand upon the wall, the shape 
and size ; and how it is to follow the memorial to the 
mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the in- 
scription, and gives it to him : adding, “ I wish to have 
it done at once.” 

“ It shall be done immediately, sir.” 

“ There is really nothing to inscribe but name and 
age, you see.” 

The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears 
to hesitate. Mr. Dombey, not observing his hesitation, 
turns away, and leads towards the porch. 

“I beg your pardon, sir;” a touch falls gently on 
his mourning cloak; “but as you wish it done imme- 
diately, and it may be put in hand when I get back ” — 

“ Well?” 

“ Will you be so good as read it over again ? I think 
there’s a mistake.” 

“ Where ? ” 

The statuary gives him back the paper, and points 
out, with his pocket-rule, the words; “ beloved and only 
child.” 

“ It should be, ‘ son,’ I think, sir ? ” 

“ You are right. Of course. Make the correction.” 

The father, with a hastier step, pursues his way to 
the coach. When the other three, who follow closely, 
take their seats, his face is hidden for the first time 
•^shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more 


36 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that day. He alights first, and passes immediately into 
his own room. The other mourners (who are only Mr 
Chick, and two of the medical attendants) proceed up- 
stairs to the drawing-room, to be received by Mrs. Chick 
and Miss Tox. And what the face is, in the shut-up 
chamber underneath : or what the thoughts are : what 
the heart is, what the contest or the suffering: no one 
knows. 

The chief thing that they know, below-stairs, in the 
kitchen, is that “ it seems like Sunday.” They can 
hardly persuade themselves but that there is something 
unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the people 
out of doors, who pursue their ordinary occupations, 
and wear their every-day attire. It is quite a novelty 
to have the blinds up, and the shutters open : and they 
make themselves dismally comfortable over bottles of 
wine, which are freely broached as on a festival. They 
are much inclined to moralize. Mr. Towlinson proposes 
with a sigh, “ Amendment to us all ! ” for which, as 
cook says with another sigh, “ There’s room enough, 
God knows.” In the evening, Mrs. Chick and Miss 
Tox take to needlework again. In the evening also, 
Mr. Towlinson goes out to take the air, accompanied 
by the house-maid, who has not yet tried her mourning 
bonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky 
6treet-corners, and Towlinson has visions of leading an 
altered and blameless existence as a serious green-grocer 
in Oxford Market. 

There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr. Dom- 
bey’s house to-night, than there has been for many 
nights. 

The morning sun awakens the old household, settled 
down once more in their old ways. The rosy children 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


37 


opposite, run past with hoops. There is a splendid wed- 
ding in the church. The juggler’s wife is active with 
the money-box in another quarter of the town. The 
mason sings and whistles as he chips out p-a-u-l in the 
marble slab before him. 

And can it be that in a world so full and busy, the 
loss of one weak creature makes a void in any heart, 
so wide and deep that nothing but the width and depth 
of vast eternity can fill it up ! Florence, in her innocent 
affliction might have answered, “ Oh my brother, oh my 
dearly loved and loving brother ! Only friend and com- 
panion of my slighted childhood ! Could any less idea 
shed the light already dawning on your early grave, 
or give birth to the softened sorrow that is springing 
into life beneath this rain of tears ! ” 

“ My dear child,” said Mrs. Chick, who held it as 
a duty incumbent on her, to improve the occasion, “ when 
you are as old as I am ” — 

“ Which will be the prime of life,” observed Miss 
Tox. 

“ You will then,” pursued Mrs. Chick, gently squeez- 
ing Miss Tox’s hand in acknowledgment of her friendly 
remark, “ you will then know that all grief is unavailing, 
and that it is our duty to submit.” 

“ I will try, dear aunt. I do try,” answered Florence 
sobbing. 

“ I am glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Chick, “ because 
my love, as our dear Miss Tox — of whose sound sense 
and excellent judgment, there cannot possibly be two 
opinions ” — 

“ My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,” said 
Miss Tox. 

— “ will tell you, and confirm by her experience,” pur* 


38 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


sued Mrs. Chick “ we are called upon on all occasions 
to make an effort. It is required of us. If any — my 
dear,” turning to Miss Tox, “ I want a word. Mis — 
Mis ”— 

“ Demeanor ? ” suggested Miss Tox. 

“ No, no, no,” said Mrs. Chick. “ How can you ! 
Goodness me, it’s on the end of my tongue. Mis ” — 

“ Placed affection ? ” suggested Miss Tox, timidly. 

“ Good gracious, Lucretia ! ” returned Mrs. Chick. 
“ How very monstrous ! Misanthrope, is the word I 
want. The idea ! Misplaced affection ! I say, if any 
misanthrope were to put, in my presence, the question 
‘ Why were we born ? ’ I should reply, c to make an 
effort/ ” 

“Very good indeed,” said Miss Tox, much impressed 
by the originality of the sentiment. “ Very good.” 

“ Unhappily,” pursued Mrs. Chick, “ we have a warn- 
ing under our own eyes. We have but too much reason 
to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort had been 
made in time, in this family, a train of the most trying 
and distressing circumstances might have been avoided. 
Nothing shall ever persuade me,” observed the good 
matron, with a resolute air, “ but that if that effort had 
been made by poor dear Fanny, the poor dear darling 
child would at least have had a stronger constitution.” 

Mrs. Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half 
a moment; but, as a practical illustration of her doc- 
trine, brought herself up short, in the middle of a sob, 
and went on again. 

“Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have 
some strength of mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the 
distress in which your poor papa is plunged.” 

“ Dear aunt ! ” said Florence, kneeling quickly down 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


39 


before her, that she might the better and more earnestly 
look into her face. “ Tell me more about papa. Pray 
tell me about him ! Is he quite heart-broken 

Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was some- 
thing in this appeal that moved her very much. Whether 
she saw in it a succession, on the part of the neglected 
child, to the affectionate concern so often expressed by 
her dead brother — or a love that sought to twine itself 
about the heart that had loved him, and that could not 
bear to be shut out from sympathy with such a sorrow, 
in such sad community of love and grief — or whether 
she only recognized the earnest and devoted spirit 
which, although discarded and repulsed, was wrung with 
tenderness long unreturned, and in the waste and soli- 
tude of this bereavement cried to him to seek a comfort in 
it, and to give some, by some small response — whatever 
may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss 
Tox. For the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs. 
Chick, and patting Florence hastily on the cheek, turned 
aside and suffered the tears to gush from her eyes, with- 
out waiting for a lead from that wise matron. 

Mrs. Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of 
mind on which she so much prided herself ; and re- 
mained mute, looking 'on the beautiful young face that 
had so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned 
towards the little bed. But recovering her voice — 
which was synonymous with her presence of mind, in- 
deed they were one and the same thing — she replied 
with dignity : 

“ Florence, my dear child, your poor papa is peculiar 
at times ; and to question me about him, is to question 
me upon a subject which I really do not pretend to un- 
derstand. I believe I have as much influence with your 


40 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


papa as anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has 
said very little to me ; and that I have only seen him 
once or twice for a minute at a time, and indeed have 
hardly seen him then, for his room has been dark. I 
have said to your papa 4 Paul ! ’ — that is the exact 
expression I used — 4 Paul ! why do you not take some- 
thing stimulating? ’ Your papa’s reply has always been, 
4 Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I want noth- 
ing. I am better by myself.’ If I was to be put upon 
my oath to-morrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,” said 
Mrs. Chick, 44 1 have no doubt I could venture to swear 
to those identical words.” 

Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, 44 My 
Louisa is ever methodical ! ” 

44 In short, Florence,” resumed her aunt, 44 literally 
nothing has passed between your poor papa and myself, 
until to-day ; when I mentioned to your papa that Sir 
Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind 
notes — our sweet boy ! Lady Skettles loved him like 
a where’s my pocket handkerchief ! ” 

Miss Tox produced one. 

44 Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should 
visit them for change of scene. Mentioning to your 
papa that I thought Miss Tox and myself might now go 
home (in which he quite agreed), I inquired if he had 
any objection to your accepting this invitation. He said, 
No, Louisa, not the least ! ’ ” 

Florence raised her tearful eyes. 

44 At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, 
Florence, to paying this visit at present, or to going 
oome with me ” — 

44 1 should much prefer it, aunt,” was the faint re- 
joinder. 


D0MI3EY AND SON. 


41 


“ Why, then, child/’ said Mrs. Chick, “ you can. It’s 
a strange choice, I must say. But you always were 
strange. Anybody else at your time of life, and after 
what has passed — my dear Miss Tox, I have lost my 
pocket handkerchief again — would be glad to leave 
here, one would suppose.” 

“ I should not like to feel,” said Florence, “ as if the 
house was avoided. I should not like to think that the 
— his — the rooms up-stairs were quite empty and 
dreary, aunt. .1 would rather stay here, for the present. 
Oh my brother ! oh ray brother ! ” 

It was a natural emotion, not to be suppressed ; and 
it would make way even between the fingers of the 
hands with which she covered up her face. The over- 
charged and heavy-laden breast must sometimes have 
that vent, or the poor wounded solitary heart within it 
would have fluttered like a bird with broken wings, and 
sunk down in the dust. 

“Well, child!” said Mrs. Chick, after a pause. “I 
wouldn’t on any account say anything unkind to you, 
and that I’m sure you know. You will remain here, 
then, and do exactly as you like. No one will interfere 
with you, Florence, or wish to interfere with you, I’m 
sure.” 

Florence shook her head in sad assent. 

“ I had no sooner begun to advise your poor papa that 
he really ought to seek some distraction and restoration 
in a temporary change,” said Mrs. Chick, “ than he told 
me he had already formed the intention of going into the 
country for a short time. I’m sure I hope he’ll go very 
soon. He can’t go too soon. But I suppose there are 
some arrangements connected with his private papers 
and so forth, consequent on the affliction that has tried 


42 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


us all so much — I can’t think what’s become of mine : 
Lucretia, lend me yours, my dear — that may occupy 
him for one or two evenings in his own room. Your 
papa’s a Dombey, child, if ever there was one,” said Mrs. 
Chick, drying both her eyes at once with great care on 
opposite corners of Miss Tox’s handkerchief. “ He’ll 
make an effort. There’s no fear of him.” 

“ Is there nothing, aunt,” asked Florence, trembling, 
u 1 might do to ” — 

“ Lord, my dear child,” interposed Mrs. Chick, has- 
tily, “ what are you talking about ? If your papa said 
to me — I have given you his exact words, 6 Louisa, I 
want nothing; I am better by myself’ — what do you 
think he’d say to you ? You mustn’t show yourself to 
him, child. Don’t dream of such a thing.” 

“ Aunt,” said Florence, “ I will go and lie down in 
my bed.” 

Mrs. Chick approved of this resolution, and dismissed 
her with a kiss. But Miss Tox, on a faint pretence of 
looking for the mislaid handkerchief, went up-stairs after 
her ; and tried in a few stolen minutes to comfort her, in 
spite of great discouragement from Susan Nipper. For 
Miss Nipper, in her burning zeal, disparaged Miss Tox 
as a crocodile ; yet her sympathy seemed genuine, and 
had at least the vantage-ground of disinterestedness — 
there was little favor to be won by it. 

And was there no one nearer and dearer than Susan, 
to uphold the striving heart in its anguish ? Was there 
no other neck to clasp ; no other face to turn to ? no 
one else to say a soothing word to such deep sorrow ? 
Was Florence so alone in the bleak world that nothing 
else remained to her ? Nothing. Stricken motherless 
and brotherless at once — for in the loss of little Paul, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


43 


that first and greatest loss fell heavily upon her — this 
was the only help she had. Oh, who can tell how much 
she needed help at first ! 

At first, when the house subsided into its accustomed 
course, and they had all gone away, except the servants, 
and her father shut up in his own rooms, Florence could 
do nothing but weep, and wander up and down, and 
sometimes, in a sudden pang of desolate remembrance, 
fly to her own chamber, wring her hands, lay her face 
down on her bed, and know no consolation : nothing but 
the bitterness and cruelty of grief. This commonly en- 
sued upon the recognition of some spot or object very 
tenderly associated with him ; and it made the miserable 
house, at first, a place of agony. 

But it is not in the nature of pure love to burn so 
fiercely and unkindly long. The flame that in its grosser 
composition has the taint of earth, may prey upon the 
breast that gives it shelter ; but the sacred fire from 
heaven is as gentle in the heart as when it rested on the 
heads of the assembled twelve, and showed each man his 
brother, brightened and unhurt. The image conjured 
up, there soon returned the placid face, the softened 
voice, the loving looks, the quiet trustfulness and peace ; 
and Florence, though she wept still, wept more tran- 
quilly, and courted the remembrance. 

It was not very long before the golden water, dancing 
on the wall, in the old place at the old serene time, had 
her calm eyes fixed upon it as it ebbed away. It was 
not very long before that room again knew her, often ; sit- 
ting there alone, as patient and as mild as when she had 
watched beside the little bed. When any sharp sense 
of its being empty smote upon her, she could kneel be- 
side it, and pray God — it was the pouring out of her 


44 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


full heart — to let one angel love her and remember 
her. 

It was not very long, before, in the midst of the dis- 
mal house so wide and dreary, her low voice in the twi- 
light, slowly, and stopping sometimes, touched the old 
air to which he had so often listened, with his drooping 
head upon her arm. And after that, and when it was 
quite dark, a little strain of music trembled in the room : 
so softly played and sung, that it was more like the 
mournful recollection of what she had done at his re- 
quest on that last night, than the reality repeated. But 
it was repeated, often — very often, in the shadowy soli- 
tude ; and broken murmurs of the strain still trembled 
on the keys, when the sweet voice was hushed in 
tears. 

Thus she gained heart to look upon the work with 
which her fingers had been busy by his side on the sea- 
shore ; and thus it was not very long before she took to 
it again — with something of a human love for it, as if it 
had been sentient and had known him ; and, sitting in a 
window, near her mother’s picture, in the unused room so 
long deserted, wore away the thoughtful hours. 

Why did the dark eyes turn so often from this work 
to where the rosy children lived ? They were not im- 
mediately suggestive of her loss ; for they were all girls : 
four little sisters. But they were motherless like her — 
and had a father. 

It was easy to know when he had gone out and was 
expected home, for the elder child was always dressed 
and waiting for him at the drawing-room window, or in 
the balcony ; and when he appeared, her expectant face 
lighted up with joy, while the others at the high window, 
and always on the watch too, clapped their hands, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


45 


drummed them on the sill, and called to him. The 
elder child would come down to the hall, and put her 
hand in his, and lead him up the stairs ; and Florence 
would see her afterwards sitting by his side, or on his 
knee, or hanging coaxingly about his neck and talking to 
him : and though they were always gay together, lie 
would often watch her face, as if he thought her like 
her mother that was dead. Florence would sometimes 
look no more at this, and bursting into tears would hide 
behind the curtain as if she were frightened, or would 
hurry from the window. Yet she could not help return- 
ing ; and her work would soon fall unheeded from her 
hands again. 

It was the house that had been empty, years ago. It 
had remained so for a long time. At last, and while she 
had been away from home, this family had taken it ; and 
it was repaired and newly painted ; and there were 
birds and flowers about it ; and it looked very differ- 
ent from its old self. But she never thought of the 
house. The children and their father were all in all. 

When he had dined, she could see them, through the 
open windows, go down with their governess or nurse, 
and cluster round the table ; and in the still summer 
weather, the sound of their childish voices and clear 
laughter would come ringing across the street, into the 
drooping air of the room in which she sat. Then they 
would climb and clamber up-stairs with him, and romp 
about him on the sofa, or group themselves at his knee, 
a very nosegay of little faces, while he seemed to tell 
them some story. Or they would come running out into 
the balcony ; and then Florence would hide herself 
quickly, lest it should check them in their joy, to see hei 
in her black dress, sitting there alone. 


46 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


The elder child remained with her fathei when the 
rest had gone away, and made his tea for him — happy 
little house-keeper she was then ! — and sat conversing 
with him, sometimes at the window, sometimes in the 
room, until the candles came. He made her his com- 
panion, though she was some years younger than Flor- 
ence ; and she could be as staid and pleasantly demure, 
with her little book or work-box, as a woman. When 
they had candles, Florence from her own dark room was 
not afraid to look again. But when the time came for 
the child to say “ Good-night, papa,” and go to bed, 
Florence would sob and tremble as she raised her face 
to him, and could look no more. 

Though still she would turn, again and again, before 
going to bed herself, from the simple air that had lulled 
him to rest so often, long ago, and from the other low 
soft broken strain of music, back to that house. But 
that she ever thought of it, or watched it, was a secret 
which she kept within her own young breast. 

And did that breast of Florence — Florence, so in- 
genuous and true — so worthy of the love that he had 
borne her, and had whispered in his last faint words — 
whose guileless heart was mirrored in the beauty of her 
face, and breathed in every accent of her gentle voice 
— did that young breast hold any other secret ? Yes. 
One more. 

When no one in the house was stirring, and the lights 
were all extinguished, she would softly leave her own 
room, and with noiseless feet descend the staircase, and 
approach her father’s door. Against it, scarcely breath- 
ing, she would rest her face and head, and press her 
lips, in the yearning of her love. She crouched upon 
the cold stone floor outside it, every night, to listen even 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


47 


for his breath; and in her one absorbing wish to be al- 
lowed to show him some affection, to be a consolation to 
him, to win him over to the endurance of some tender- 
ness from her, his solitary child, she would have knelt 
down at his feet, if she had dared, in humble suppli- 
cation. 

No one knew it. No one thought of it. The door 
was ever closed, and he shut up within. He went out 
once or twice, and it was said in the house that he was 
very soon going on his country journey ; but he lived in 
those rooms, and lived alone, and never saw her, or in- 
quired for her. Perhaps he did not even know that she 
was in the house. 

One day, about a week after the funeral, Florence was 
sitting at her work, when Susan appeared, with a face 
half laughing and half crying, to announce a visitor. 

“ A visitor ! To me, Susan ! ” said Florence, looking 
up in astonishment. 

“ Well, it is a wonder, a’n’t it now Miss Floy,” said 
Susan ; “ but I wish you had a many visitors, I do, in- 
deed, for you’d be all the better for it, and it’s my opin- 
ion that the sooner you and me goes even to them old 
Skettleses, miss, the better for both, I may not wish to 
live in crowds, Miss Floy, but still I’m not a oyster.” 

To do Miss Nipper justice, she spoke more for her 
young mistress than herself ; and her face showed it. 

“ But the visitor, Susan,” said Florence. 

Susan, with an hysterical explosion that was as much 
a laugh as a sob, and as much a sob as a laugh, an- 
swered, — 

“Mr Toots!” 

The smile that appeared on Florence’s face passed 
from it in a moment, and her eyes filled with tears. 


18 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


But at any rate it was a smile, and that gave great 
satisfaction to Miss Nipper. 

44 My own feelings exactly, Miss Floy,” said Susan, 
putting her apron to her eyes, and shaking her head. 
44 Immediately I see that Innocent in the hall, Miss Floy, 
I burst out laughing first, and then I choked.” 

Susan Nipper involuntarily proceeded to do the like 
again on the spot. In the mean time Mr. Toots, who had 
come up-stairs after her, all unconscious of the effect he 
produced, announced himself with his knuckles on the 
door, and walked in very briskly. 

44 How d’ye do, Miss Dombey ? ” said Mr. Toots. 
44 I’m very well I thank you ; how are you ? ” 

Mr. Toots — than whom there were few better fellows 
in the world, though there may have been one or two 
brighter spirits — had laboriously invented this long 
burst of discourse with the view of relieving the feel- 
ings both of Florence and himself. But finding that he 
had run through his property, as it were, in an injudi- 
cious manner, by squandering the whole before taking a 
chair, or before Florence had uttered a word, or before 
he had well got in at the door, he deemed it advisable to 
begin again. 

“ How d’ye do, Miss Dombey ? ” said Mr. Toots. “ I’m 
very well, I thank you ; how are you ? ” 

Florence gave him her hand, and said she was very 
well. 

44 I’m very well indeed,” said Mr. Toots, taking a 
chair. “Very well indeed, I am. I don’t remember,” 
said Mr. Toots, after reflecting a little, 44 that I was 
ever better, thank you.” 

44 It’s very kind of you to come,” said Florence, tak- 
ing up her work. 44 1 am very glad to see you.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


49 


Mr Toots responded with a chuckle. Thinking that 
might be too lively, he corrected it with a sigh. Think- 
ing that might be too melancholy, he corrected it with 
a chuckle. Not thoroughly pleasing himself with either 
mode of reply, he breathed hard. 

“ You were very kind to my dear brother,” said 
Florence, obeying her own natural impulse to relieve 
him by saying so. “ He often talked to me about 
you.” 

“ Oh, it’s of no consequence,” said Mr. Toots hastily. 

“ Warm, a’n’t it?” 

“ It is beautiful weather,” replied Florence. 

“ It agrees with me ! ” said Mr. Toots. “ I don’t 
think I ever was so well as I find myself at present, 
I’m obliged to you.” 

After stating this curious and unexpected fact, Mr. 
Toots fell into a deep well of silence. 

“ You have left Doctor Blimber’s, I think ? ” said * 
Florence, trying to help him out. 

“ I should hope so,” returned Mr. Toots. And tum- 
bled in again. 

He remained at the bottom, apparently drowned, for 
at least ten minutes. At the expiration of that period, 
he suddenly floated, and said, 

“Well! Good-morning, Miss Dombey. ” 

“Are you going ? ” asked Florence, rising. 

“ I don’t know, though. No, not just at present,” 
said Mr. Toots, sitting down again, most unexpectedly. 

$ The fact is — I say, Miss Dombey ! ” 

“ Don’t be afraid to speak to me,” said Florence, with 
a quiet smile, “ I should be very glad if you would 
talk about my brother.” 

“ Would you, though,” retorted Mr. Toots, with sym- 
VOL. II. 4 


50 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


pathy in every fibre of his otherwise expressionless face 
“ Poor Dombey ! I’m sure I never thought that Bur- 
gess & Co. — fashionable tailors (but very dear), that we 
used to talk about — would make this suit of clothes 
for such a purpose.” Mr. Toots was dressed in mourn- 
ing. “ Poor Dombey ! I say ! Miss Dombey ! ” blub- 
bered Toots. 

u Yes,” said Florence. 

u There’s a friend he took to very much at la»t. I 
thought you’d like to have him, perhaps, as a sort of 
keepsake. You remember his remembering Diogenes ? ” 

“ Oh yes ! oh yes ! ” cried Florence. 

“ Poor Dombey ! So do I,” said Mr. Toots. 

Mr. Toots, seeing Florence in tears, had great diffi- 
culty in getting beyond this point, and had nearly tumbled 
into the well again. But a chuckle saved him on the 
brink. 

“ I say,” he proceeded, “ Miss Dombey ! I could have 
had him stolen for ten shillings, if they hadn’t given 
him up ; and I would : but they were glad to get rid 
of him, I think. If you’d like to have him, he’s at the 
door. I brought him on purpose for you. He a’n’t a 
lady’s dog, you know,” said Mr. Toots, “ but you won’t 
mind that, will you ? ” 

In fact, Diogenes was at that moment, as they pres- 
ently ascertained from looking down into the street, 
staring through the window of a hackney cabriolet, into 
which, for conveyance to that spot, he had been ensnared, 
on a false pretence of rats among the straw. Sooth to 
sav, he was as unlike a lady’s dog as dog might be ; 
and in his gruff anxiety to get out presented an appear- 
ance sufficiently unpromising, as he gave short yelps 
out of one side of his mouth, and overbalancing himself 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


51 


by the intensity of every one of those efforts, tumbled 
down into the straw, and then sprung panting up again, 
putting out his tongue, as if he had come express to 
a dispensary to be examined for his health. 

But though Diogenes was as ridiculous a dog as one 
would meet with on a summer’s day ; a blundering, ill- 
favored, clumsy, bullet-headed dog, continually acting 
on a wrong idea that there was an enemy in the neigh- 
borhood, whom it was meritorious to bark at ; and though 
he was far from good-tempered, and certainly was not 
clever, and had hair all over his eyes, and a comic nose, 
and an inconsistent tail, and a gruff voice ; he was dear- 
er to Florence, in virtue of that parting remembrance 
of him, and that request that he might be taken care 
of, than the most valuable and beautiful of his kind. 
So dear, indeed, was this same ugly Diogenes, and so 
welcome to her, that she took the jewelled hand of Mr. 
Toots and kissed it in her gratitude. And when Diog- 
enes, released, came tearing up the stairs and bouncing 
into the room (such a business as there was first, to get 
him out of the cabriolet !), dived under all the furniture, 
and wound a long iron chain, that dangled from his neck, 
round legs of chairs and tables, and then tugged at it 
until his eyes became unnaturally visible, in consequence 
of their nearly starting out of his head ; and when he 
growled at Mr. Toots, who affected familiarity ; and 
went pell-mell at Towlinson, morally convinced that he 
was the enemy whom he had barked at round the cor- 
ner all his life and had never seen yet : Florence was as 
pleased with him as if he had been a miracle of dis- 
cretion. 

Mr. Toots was so overjoyed by the success of his 
present, and was so delighted to see Florence bending 


52 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


down over Diogenes, smoothing his coarse back with her 
little delicate hand — Diogenes graciously allowing it 
from the first moment of their acquaintance — that he 
felt it difficult to take leave, and would, no doubt, have 
been a much longer time in making up his mind to do 
so, if he had not been assisted by Diogenes himself, w r ho 
suddenly took it into his head to bay Mr. Toots, and to 
make short runs at him with his mouth open. Not ex- 
actly seeing his way to the end of these demonstrations, 
and sensible that they placed the pantaloons constructed 
by the art of Burgess & Co. in jeopardy, Mr. Toots, 
with chuckles, lapsed out at the door : by which, after 
looking in again two or three times, without any object 
at all, and being on each occasion greeted with a fresh 
run from Diogenes, he finally took himself off and got 
away. 

“ Come, then, Di ! Dear Di ! Make friends with 
your new mistress. Let us love each other Di ! ” 
said Florence, fondling his shaggy head. And Di, 
the rough and gruff, as if his hairy hide were pervious 
to the tear that dropped upon it, and his dog’s heart 
melted as it fell, put his nose up to her face, and swore 
fidelity. 

Diogenes the man did not speak plainer to Alexander 
the Great than Diogenes the dog spoke to Florence. 
He subscribed to the offer of his little mistress cheer- 
fully, and devoted himself to her service. A banquet 
was immediately provided for him in a corner ; and 
when he had eaten and drunk his fill, he went to the 
window where Florence was sitting, looking on, rose up 
on his hind legs, with his awkward fore paws on her 
shoulders, licked her face and hands, nestled his great 
head against her heart, ond wagged his tail till he was 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


53 


tired. Finally, Diogenes coiled himself up at her feet 
and went to sleep. 

Although Miss Nipper was nervous in regard of dogs, 
and felt it necessary to come into the room with her 
skirts carefully collected about her, as if she were cross- 
ing a brook on stepping-stones ; also to utter little 
screams and stand up on chairs when Diogenes stretched 
himself ; she was in her own manner affected by the 
kindness of Mr. Toots, and could not see Florence so 
alive to the attachment and society of this rude friend of 
little Paul’s, without some mental comments thereupon 
that brought the water to her eyes. Mr. Dombey, as a 
part of her reflections, may have been, in the association 
of ideas, connected with the dog ; but, at any rate, after 
observing Diogenes and his mistress all the evening, and 
after exerting herself with much good-will to provide 
Diogenes a bed in an antechamber outside his mistress’s 
door, she said hurriedly to Florence, before leaving her 
for the night : 

“ Your pa’s a-going off, Miss Floy, to-morrow morn- 
ing.” 

“ To-morrow morning, Susan ? ” 

“ Yes, miss ; that’s the orders. Early.” 

“ Do you know,” asked Florence, without looking at 
her, “ where papa is going, Susan ? ” 

“ Not exactly, miss. He’s going to meet that precious 
major first, and I must say if I was acquainted with any 
major myself (which Heavens forbid), it shouldn’t be a 
blue one ! ” 

“ Hush, Susan ! ” urged Florence gently. 

“ Well, Miss Floy,” returned. Miss Nipper, who was 
full of burning indignation, and minded her stops even 
less than usual. u I can’t help it, blue he is, and while I 


54 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


was a Christian, although humble, I would nave natural* 
colored friends, or none.” 

It appeared from what she added and had gleaned 
down-stairs, that Mrs. Chick had proposed the major for 
Mr. Dombey’s companion, and that Mr. Dombey, after 
some hesitation, had invited him. 

“ Talk of him being a change, indeed ! ” observed Miss 
Nipper to herself with boundless contempt. “ If he’s a 
change give me a constancy.” 

“ Good-night, Susan,” said Florence. 

“ Good-night, my darling dear Miss Floy.” 

Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often 
roughly touched, but never listened to while she or any 
one looked on. Florence left alone, laid her head upon 
her hand, and pressing the other over her swelling heart, 
held free communication with her sorrows. 

It was a wet night ; and the melancholy rain fell pat- 
tering and dropping with a wearied sound. A sluggish 
wind was blowing, and went moaning round the house, 
as if it were in pain or grief. A shrill noise quivered 
through the trees. While she sat weeping, it grew late, 
and dreary midnight tolled out from the steeples. 

Florence was little more than a child in years — not 
yet fourteen — and the loneliness and gloom of such an 
hour in the great house where Death had lately made its 
own tremendous devastation, might have set an older 
fancy brooding on vague terrors. But her innocent 
imagination was too full of one theme to admit them. 
Nothing wandered in her thoughts but love — a wander- 
ing love, indeed, and cast away — but turning always to 
her father. 

There was nothing in the dropping of the rain, the 
moaning of the wind, the shuddering of the trees, the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


55 


striking of the solemn clocks, that shook this one thought, 
or diminished its interest. Her recollections of the dear 
dead boy — and they were never absent — were itself ; 
the same thing. And oh, to be shut out : to be so lost : 
never to have looked into her father’s face or touched 
him, since that hour ! 

She could not go to bed, poor child, and never had 
gone yet, since then, without making her nightly pilgrim- 
age to his door. It would have been a strange sad sight, 
to see her now, stealing lightly down the stairs through 
the thick gloom, and stopping at it with a beating heart, 
and blinded eyes, and hair that fell down loosely and un- 
thought of: and touching it outside with her wet cheek. 
But the night covered it, and no one knew. 

The moment that she touched the door on this night, 
Florence found that it was open. For the first time it 
stood open, though by but a hair’s-breadth : and there 
was a light within. The first impulse of the timid child 
— and she yielded to it — was to retire swiftly. Her 
next, to go back, and to enter ; and this second impulse 
held her in irresolution on the staircase. 

In its standing open, even by so much as that chink, 
there seemed to be hope. There was encouragement in 
seeing a ray of light from within, stealing through the 
dark stern door-way, and falling in a thread upon the 
marble floor. She turned back, hardly knowing what 
she did, but urged on by the love within her, and the 
trial they had undergone together, but not shared : and 
with her hands a little raised and trembling, glided in. 

Her father sat at his old table- in the middle room. 
He had been arranging some papers, and destroying 
others, and the latter lay in fragile ruins before him. 
The rain dripped heavily upon the glass panes in the 


56 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


outer room, where he had so often watched poor Paul, a 
baby ; and the low complainings of the wind were heard 
without. 

But not by him. He sat with his eyes fixed on the 
table, so immersed in thought, that a far heavier tread 
than the light foot of his child could make, might have 
failed to rouse him. His face was turned towards her. 
By the waning lamp, and at that haggard hour, it looked 
worn and dejected ; and in the utter loneliness surround- 
ing him, there was an appeal to Florence that struck 
home. 

“ Papa ! papa ! Speak to me, dear papa ! ” 

He started at her voice, and leaped up from his seat. 
She was close before him with extended arms, but he 
fell back. 

“ What is the matter ? ” he said, sternly. u Why do 
you come here ? What has frightened you ? ” 

If anything had frightened her, it was the face he 
turned upon her. The glowing love within the breast 
of his young daughter froze before it, and she stood and 
looked at him as if stricken into stone. 

There was not one touch of tenderness or pity in it. 
There was not one gleam of interest, parental recogni- 
tion, or relenting in it. There was a change in it, but 
not of that kind. The old indifference and cold con- 
straint had given place to something : what, she never 
thought and did not dare to think, and yet she felt it in 
its force, and knew it well without a name : that as it 
looked upon her, seemed to cast a shadow on her head. 

Did he see before him the successful rival of his son, 
in health and life ? Did he look upon his own success- 
ful rival in that son’s affection ? Did a mad jealousy 
and withered pride, poison sweet remembrances that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


57 


Bhould have endeared and made her precious to him r 
Could it be possible that it was gall to him to look upon 
her in her beauty and her promise : thinking of his 
infant boy ! 

Florence had no such thoughts. But love is quick 
to know when it is spurned and hopeless : and hope died 
out of hers, as she stood looking in her father’s face. 

“ I ask you, Florence, are you frightened ? Is there 
anything the matter, that you come here ? ” 

“ I came papa ” — 

“ Against my wishes. Why ? ” 

She saw he knew why : it was written broadly on his 
face : and dropped her head upon her hands with one 
prolonged low cry. 

Let him remember it in that room, years to come. It 
has faded from the air, before he breaks the silence. It 
may pass as quickly from his brain, as he believes, but it 
is there. Let him remember it in that room, years to 
come ! 

He took her by the arm. His hand was cold, and 
loose, and scarcely closed upon her. 

“ You are tired, I dare say,” he said, taking up the 
light, and leading her towards the door, “ and want rest. 
We all want rest. Go Florence. You have been 
dreaming.” 

The dream she had had, was over then, God help 
her ! and she felt that it could never more come back. 

“ I will remain here to light you up the stairs. The 
whole house is yours, above there,” said her father, 
slowly. “ You are its mistress now. Good-night ! ” 

Still covering her face, she sobbed, and answered 
u Good-night, dear papa,” and silently ascended. Once 
she looked back as if she would have returned to him, 


58 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


but for fear. It was a momentary thought, too hopeless 
to encourage ; and her father stood there with the light 
— hard, unresponsive, motionless — until the fluttering 
dress of his fair child was lost in the darkness. 

Let him remember it in that room, years to come. 
The rain that falls upon the roof : the wind that mourns 
outside the door : may have foreknowledge in their mel- 
ancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, 
years to come ! 

The last time he had watched her, from the same 
place, winding up those stairs, she had had her brother 
in her arms. It did not move his heart towards her 
now, it steeled it : but he went into his room, and locked 
his door, and sat down in his chair, and cried for his lost 
boy. 

Diogenes was broad awake upon his post, and waiting 
for his little mistress. 

“ Oh Di ! Oh dear Di ! Love me for his sake ! ” 

Diogenes already loved her for her own, and didn’t 
care how much he showed it. So he made himself 
vastly ridiculous by performing a variety of uncouth 
bounces in the antechamber, and concluded, when poor 
Florence was at last asleep, and dreaming of the rosy 
children opposite, by scratching open her bedroom door: 
rolling up his bed into a pillow : lying down on the 
boards at the full length of his tether, with his head 
towards her : and looking lazily at her, upside down, out 
of the tops of his eyes, until from winking and winking 
he fell asleep himself, and dreamed, with gruff barks, of 
his enemy. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


59 


CHAPTER XIX. 

WALTER GOES AWAY. 

The Wooden Midshipman at the Instrument-maker’s 
door, like the hard-hearted little midshipman he was, 
remained supremely indifferent to Walters going away, 
even when the very last day of his sojourn in the back- 
parlor was on the decline. With his quadrant at his 
round black knob of an eye, and his figure in its old 
attitude of indomitable alacrity, the midshipman dis- 
played his elfin small-clothes to the best advantage, and, 
absorbed in scientific pursuits, had no sympathy with 
worldly concerns. He was so far the creature of cir- 
cumstances, that a dry day covered him with dust, and a 
misty day peppered him with little bits of soot, and a 
wet day brightened up his tarnished uniform for a mo- 
ment, and a very hot day blistered him ; but otherwise 
he was a callous, obdurate, conceited midshipman, intent 
on his own discoveries, and caring as little for what went 
on about him, terrestrially, as Archimedes at the taking 
of Syracuse. 

Such a midshipman he seemed to be, at least, in the 
then position of domestic affairs. Walter eyed him kind- 
ly many a time in passing in and out ; and poor old Sol, 
when Walter was not there, would come and lean against 
the door-post, resting his weary wig as near the shoe- 
buckles of the guardian genius of his trade and shop 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


HO 

as he could. But no fierce idol with a mouth from eai 
to ear, and a murderous visage made of parrot’s feathers, 
was ever more indifferent, to the appeals of its savage 
votaries, than was the midshipman to these marks of 
attachment. 

Walter’s heart felt heavy as he looked round his old 
bedroom, up among the parapets and chimney-pots, and 
thought that one more night already darkening would 
close his acquaintance with it, perhaps forever. Dis- 
mantled of his little stock of books and pictures, it looked 
coldly and reproachfully on him for his desertion, and 
had already a foreshadowing upon it of its coming 
strangeness. “ A few hours more,” thought Walter 
“ and no dream -I ever had here when I was a school- 
boy will be so little mine as this old room. The dream 
may come back in my sleep, and I may return waking 
to this place, it may be : but the dream at least will 
serve no other master, and the room may have a score, 
and every one of them may change, neglect, misuse it.” 

But his uncle was not to be left alone in the little 
back -parlor, where he was then sitting by himself ; for 
Captain Cuttle, considerate in his roughness, stayed away 
against his will, purposely that they should have some 
talk together unobserved : so Walter, newly returned 
home from his last day’s bustle, descended briskly to 
bear him company. 

u Uncle,” he said gayly, laying his hand upon the old 
man’s shoulders, “ what shall I send you home from Bar- 
badoes ? ” 

“ Hope, my dear Wally. Hope that we shall meet 
again, on this side of the grave. Send me as much of 
that as you can.” 

“ So I will, uncle : I have enough and to spare, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


61 


Fll not be chary of it ! And as to lively turtles, and 
limes for Captain Cuttle’s punch, and preserves for you 
on Sundays, and all that sort of thing, why I’ll send you 
ship-loads, uncle : when I’m rich enough.” 

Old Sol wiped his spectacles, and faintly smiled. 

“That’s right, uncle!” cried Walter, merrily, and 
clapping him half a dozen times more upon the shoulder. 
“ You cheer up me ! I’ll cheer up you ! We’ll be as gay 
as larks to-morrow morning, uncle, and we’ll fly as high ! 
As to my anticipations, they are singing out of sight now.” 

“ Wally, my dear boy,” returned the old man, a I’ll do 
my best, I’ll do my best.” 

“ And your best, uncle,” said Walter, with his pleas- 
ant laugh, “ is the best best that I know. You’ll not 
forget what you’re to send me, uncle?” 

“ No, Wally, no,” replied the old man ; “ everything I 
hear about Miss Dombey, now that she is left alone, poor 
lamb, I’ll write. I fear it won’t be much though, Wally.” 

“ Why, I’ll tell you what, uncle/’ said Walter, after a 
moment’s hesitation, “ I have just been up there.” 

“ Ay, ay, ay ? ” murmured the old man, raising his 
eyebrows, and his spectacles with them. 

“Not to see her ,” said Walter, “ though I could have 
seen her, I dare say, if I had asked, Mr. Dombey 
being out of town • but to say a parting word to Susan. 
I thought I might venture to do that, you know, under 
the circumstances, and remembering when I saw Miss 
Dombey last.” 

“ Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his uncle, rousing him- 
self from a temporary abstraction. 

“ So I saw her,” pursued Walter. “ Susan, I mean : 
and I told her I was off and away to-morrow. And 
l said, uncle, that you had always had an interest in 


62 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Miss Dombey since that night when she was here, and 
always wished her well and happy, and always would 
be proud and glad to serve her in the least : I thought 
I might say that, you know, under the circumstances. 
Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ Yes, my boy, yes,” replied his uncle, in the tone 
as before. 

“ And I added,” pursued Walter, “ that if she — Su- 
san, I mean — could ever let you know, either through 
herself or Mrs. Richards, or anybody else who might 
be coming this way, that Miss Dombey was well and 
happy, you would take it very kindly, and would write 
so much to me, and I should take it very kindly too. 
There ! Upon my word, uncle,” said Walter, “ I scarce- 
ly slept all last night through thinking of doing this ; 
and could not make up my mind when I was out, 
whether to do it or not ; and yet I am sure it is the 
true feeling of my heart, and I should have been quite 
miserable afterwards if I had not relieved it.” 

His honest voice and manner corroborated what he 
said, and quite established its ingenuousness. 

“ So, if you ever see her, uncle,” said Walter, “ I 
mean Miss Dombey now — and perhaps you may, who 
knows ! — tell her how much I felt for her ; how much 
I used to think of her when I was here ; how I spoke 
of her, with the tears in my eyes, uncle, on this last 
night before I went away. Tell her that I said I never 
could forget her gentle manner, or her beautiful face, 
or her sweet kind disposition that was better than all. 
And as I didn’t take them from a woman’s feet, or a 
young lady’s : only a little innocent child’s,” said Walter : 
* tell her if you don’t mind, uncle, that I kept those 
shoes — she’ll remember how often they fell off, that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


63 


night — and took them away with me as a remem- 
brance ! ” 

They were at that very moment going out at the 
door in one of Walter’s trunks. A porter carrying off 
his baggage on a truck for shipment at the docks on- 
ooard the Son and Heir, had got possession of them ; 
and wheeled them away under the very eye of the 
insensible Midshipman before their owner had well fin- 
ished speaking. 

But that ancient mariner might have been excused 
bis insensibility to the treasure as it rolled away. For, 
under his eye at the same moment, accurately within 
his range of observation, coming full into the sphere 
of his startled and intensely wide-awake look-out, were 
Florence and Susan Nipper : Florence looking up into 
his face half timidly, and receiving the whole shock of his 
wooden ogling ! 

More than this, they passed into the shop, and passed 
in at the parlor-door before they were observed by 
anybody but the Midshipman. And Walter, having his 
back to the door, would have known nothing of their 
apparition even then, but for seeing his uncle spring out 
of his own chair, and nearly tumble over another. 

“ Why uncle ! ” exclaimed Walter. “ What’s the mat- 
ter?” 

Old Solomon replied, “ Miss Dombey ! ” 

“Is it possible!” cried Walter, looking round and 
starting up in his turn. “ Here ! ” 

Why it was so possible and so actual, that, while 
the words were on his lips, Florence hurried past him ; 
took Unci 3 Sol’s snuff-colored lappels, one in each , 
hand ; kissed him on the cheek ; and turning, gave 
her hand to Walter with a simple truth and ear- 


64 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


nestness that was her own, and no one else’s in the 

world ! 

“ Going away, Walter ! ” said Florence. 

“ Yes, Miss Dombey,” he replied, but not so hopefully 
as he endeavored : “ I have a voyage before me. ” 

“ And your uncle,” said Florence, looking back at 
Solomon. “ He is sorry you are going, I am sure. Ah ! 
I see he is ! Dear Walter, I am very sorry too.” 

“ Goodness knows,” exclaimed Miss Nipper, “ there’s 
a many we could spare instead, if numbers is a object, 
Mrs. Pipchin as a overseer would come cheap at her 
weight in gold, and if a knowledge of black slavery 
should be required, them Blimbers is the very people 
for the sitiwation.” 

With that Miss Nipper untied her bonnet-strings, 
and after looking vacantly for some moments into a 
little black tea-pot that was set forth with the usual 
homely service, on the table, shook her head and a 
tin canister, and began unasked to make the tea. 

In the mean time Florence had turned again to the 
Instrument-maker, who was as full of admiration as sur- 
prise. “ So grown ! ” said old Sol. “ So improved ! 
And yet not altered ! Just the same ! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Florence. 

“Ye — yes,” returned old Sol, rubbing his hands 
slowly, and considering the matter half aloud, as some- 
thing pensive in the bright eyes looking at him arrested 
his attention. “ Yes, that expression was in the younger 
face, too ! ” 

“ You remember me,” said Florence with a smile, 
“ and what a little creature I was then ? ” 

“ My dear young lady,” returned the Instrument- 
rnaker, “ how could I forget you, often as I have thought 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


65 


of you and heard of you since ! At the very moment* 
indeed, when you came in, Wally was talking about you 
to me, and leaving messages for you, and ” — 

“Was he?” said Florence. “Thank you, Walter! 
Oh thank you, Walter ! I was afraid you might be 
going away and hardly thinking of me ; ” and again she 
gave him her little hand so freely and so faithfully that 
Walter held it for some moments in his own, and could 
not bear to let it go. 

Yet Walter did not hold it as he might have held it 
once, nor did its touch awaken those old day-dreama 
of his boyhood that had floated past him sometimes even 
lately, and confused him with their indistinct and broken 
shapes. The purity and innocence of her endearing 
manner, and its perfect trustfulness, and the undisguised 
regard for him that lay so deeply seated in her constant 
eyes, and glowed upon her fair face through the smile 
that shaded — for alas ! it was a smile too sad to 
brighten — it, were not of their romantic race. They 
brought back to his thoughts the early death-bed he had 
seen her tending, and the love the child had borne her ; 
and on the wings of such remembrances she seemed 
to rise up, far above his idle fancies, into clearer and 
serener air. 

“I — I am afraid I must call you Walter’s uncle, 
sii,” said Florence to the old man, < 6 if you’ll let me.” 

“ My dear young lady,” cried old Sol. “ Let you ! 
Good gracious ! ” 

“We always knew you by that name, and talked of 
you,” said Florence, glancing round and sighing gently. 
'‘The nice 0I4 parlor! Just the same! How well I 
recollect it ! 

Old Sql looked first at her, then at his nephew, and 

Yo,p. TT. 5 


66 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


then rubbed his hands, and rubbed his spectacles, and 
said below his breath, “ Ah ! time, time, time ! ” 

There was a short silence ; during which Susan Nip- 
per skilfully impounded two extra cups and saucers from 
the cupboard, and awaited the drawing of the tea with a 
thoughtful air. 

“ I want to tell Walter’s uncle,” said Florence, laying 
her hand timidly upon the old man’s as it rested on the 
table, to bespeak his attention, “ something that I am 
anxious about. He is going to be left alone, and if he 
will allow me — not to take Walter’s place, for that I 
couldn’t do, but to be his true friend and help him if I 
ever can while Walter is away, I shall be very much 
obliged to him indeed. Will you ? May I, Walter’s 
uncle?” 

The Instrument-maker, without speaking, put her 
hand to his lips, and Susan Nipper, leaning back with 
her arms crossed, in the chair of presidency into which 
she had voted herself, bit one end of her bonnet-strings, 
and heaved a gentle sigh as she looked up at the skylight. 

u You will let me come to see you,” said Florence, 
“ when I can ; and you will tell me everything about 
yourself and Walter; and you will have no secrets from 
Susan when she comes and I do not, but will confide 
in us, and trust us, and rely upon us. And you’ll try to 
let us be a comfort to you? Will you, Walter’s uncle?” 

The sweet face looking into his, the gently pleading 
eyes, the soft voice, and the light touch on his arm, made 
the more winning by a child’s respect and honor for his 
age, that gave to all an air of graceful doubt and modest 
hesitation — these, and her natural earnestness, so over- 
came the poor old Instrument-maker, that he only an- 
swered 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


67 


“ Wally ! say a word for me, my dear. I’m very 
grateful.” 

“No, Walter,” returned Florence with her quiet smile 
“ Say nothing for him, if you please. I understand him 
very well, and we must learn to talk together without 
you, dear Walter.” 

The regretful tone in which she said these latter 
words, touched Walter more than all the rest. 

“ Miss Florence,” he replied, with an effort to recover 
the cheerful manner he had preserved while talking with 
his uncle, “ I know no more than my uncle, what to say 
in acknowledgment of such kindness, I am sure. But 
what could I say, after all, if I had the power of talking 
for an hour, except that it is like you ? ” 

Susan Nipper began upon a new part of her bonnet- 
string, and nodded at the skylight, in approval of the 
sentiment expressed. 

“ Oh ! but Walter,” said Florence, “ there is some- 
thing that I wish to say to you before you go away, and 
you must call me Florence if you please, and not speak 
like a stranger.” 

“ Like a stranger ! ” returned Walter. “ No. I could- 
n’t speak so. I am sure, at least, I couldn’t feel like 
one.” 

“ Ay, but that is not enough, and is not what I mean. 
For Walter,” added Florence, bursting into tears, “ he 
liked you very much, and said before he died that he was 
fond you, and said ‘ Remember Walter ! ’ and if you’ll 
be a brother to me Walter, now that he is gone and I 
have none on earth, I’ll be your sister all my life, and 
think of you like one wherever we may be ! This is 
what I wished to say, dear Walter but I cannot say it as 
l would, because my heart is full.” 


68 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


And in its fulness and its sweet simplicity, she held 
out both her hands to him. Walter taking them, stooped 
down and touched the tearful face that neither shrunk 
nor turned away, nor reddened as he did so, but looked 
up at him with confidence and truth. In that one mo- 
ment, every shadow of doubt or agitation passed away 
from Walter’s soul. It seemed to him that he responded 
to* her innocent appeal, beside the dead child’s bed: and, 
in the solemn presence he had seen there, pledged him- 
self to cherish and protect her very image, in his banish- 
ment, with brotherly regard ; to garner up her simple 
faith, inviolate ; and hold himself degraded if he breathed 
upon it any thought that was not in her own breast when 
she gave it to him. 

Susan Nipper, who had bitten both her bonnet-strings 
at once, and imparted a great deal of private emotion to 
the skylight, during this transaction, now changed the 
subject by inquiring who took milk and who took sugar ; 
and being enlightened on these points, poured out the 
tea. They all four gathered socially about the little 
table, and took tea under that young lady’s active super- 
intendence ; and the presence of Florence in the back- 
parlor, brightened the Tartar frigate on the wall. 

Half an hour ago, Walter, for his life, would have 
hardly called her by her name. But he could do so now 
when she entreated him. He could think of her being 
there, without a lurking misgiving that it would have 
been better if she had not come. He could calmly think 
how beautiful she was, how full of promise, what a home 
some happy man would find in such a heart one day. 
He could reflect upon his own place in that heart, with 
pride ; and with a brave determination, if not to deserve 
it — he still thought that far above him — never to de- 
serve it less. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


69 


Some fairy influence must surely have hovered round 
the hands of Susan Nipper when she made the tea, 
engendering the tranquil air that reigned in the back- 
parlor during its discussion. Some counter-influence 
must surely have hovered round the hands cf Uncle 
Sol’s chronometer, and moved them faster than the 
Tartar frigate ever went before the wind. Be this as 
it may, the visitors had a coach in waiting at a qutet 
corner not far off; and the chronometer, on being in- 
cidentally referred to, gave such a positive opinion that 
it had been waiting a long time, that it was impossible 
to doubt the fact, especially when stated on such unim- 
peachable authority. If Uncle Sol had been going to be 
hanged by his own time, he never would have allowed 
that the chronometer was too fast, by the least fraction 
of a second. 

Florence at parting recapitulated to the old man all 
that she had said before, and bound him to their compact. 
Uncle Sol attended her lovingly to the legs of the wooden 
Midshipman, and there resigned her to Walter, who was 
ready to escort her and Susan Nipper to the coach. 

“Walter,” said Florence by the way, “I have been 
afraid to ask before your uncle. Do you think you will 
be absent very long ? ” 

“Indeed,” said Walter, “I don’t know. I fear so. 
Mr. Dombey signified as much, I thought, when he ap- 
pointed me.” 

“ Is it a favor, Walter ? ” inquired Florence, after a 
moment’s hesitation, and looking anxiously in his face. 

“ The appointment ? ” returned Walter. 

“ Yes.” 

Walter would have given anything to have answered 
in the affirmative, but his face answered before his lips 


70 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


could, and Florence was too attentive to it not to under- 
stand its reply. 

“ I am afraid you have scarcely been a favorite with 
papa,” she said, timidly. 

“ There is no reason,” replied Walter, smiling, “ why 
I should be.” 

“ No reason, Walter ! ” 

“ There was no reason,” said Walter, understanding 
what she meant. “ There are many people employed 
in the house. Between Mr. Dombey and a young man 
like me, there’s a wide space of separation. If I do my 
duty, I do what I ought, and do no more than all the 
rest.” 

Had Florence any misgiving of which she was hardly 
conscious : any misgiving that had sprung into an indis- 
tinct and undefined existence since that recent night 
when she had gone down to her father’s room : that 
Walter’s accidental interest in her, and early knowledge 
of her, might have involved him in that powerful dis- 
pleasure and dislike? Had Walter any such idea, or 
any sudden thought that it was in her mind at that mo- 
ment? Neither of them hinted at it. Neither of them 
spoke at all, for some short time. Susan, walking on the 
other side of Walter, eyed them both sharply ; and cer- 
tainly Miss Nipper’s thoughts travelled in that direction, 
and very confidently too. 

u You may come back very soon,” said Florence, 
u perhaps, Walter.” 

“I may come back,” said Walter, “an old man, and 
find you an old lady. But I hope for better things.” 

“ Papa,” said Florence, after a moment, “ will — will 
recover from his grief, and — speak more freely to me 
one day, perhaps ; and if he should, I will tell him how 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


71 


much I wish (o see you back again, and ask him to recall 
you for my sake.” 

There was a touching modulation in these words about 
her father that Walter understood too well. 

The coach being close at hand, he would have left her 
without speaking, for now he felt what parting was ; but 
Florence held his hand when she was seated, and then 
he found there was a little packet in her own. 

“ Walter,” she said, looking full upon him with her 
affectionate eyes, “ like you, I hope for better things. I 
will pray for them, and believe that they will arrive. I 
made this little gift for Paul. Pray take it with my love, 
and do not look at it until you are gone away. And now, 
God bless you, Walter ! never forget me. You are my 
brother, dear ! ” 

He was glad that Susan Nipper came between them, 
or he might have left her with a sorrowful remembrance 
of him. He was glad too that she did not look out of 
the coach again, but waved the little hand to him instead, 
as long as he could see it. 

In spite of her request, he could not help opening the 
packet that night when he went to bed. It was a little 
purse : and there was money in it. 

Bright rose the sun next morning, from his absence in 
strange countries, and up rose Walter with it to receive 
the captain, who was already at the door : having turned 
out earlier than was necessary, in order to get under 
weigh while Mrs. MacStinger was yet slumbering. The 
captain pretended to be in tip-top spirits, and brought a 
very smoky tongue in one of the pockets of the broad 
blue coat for breakfast. 

“And Wal’r,” said the captain, when they took their 
seats at table, “ if your uncle’s the man I think him, he’ll 


72 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


bring out the last bottle of the Madeira on the present 
occasion.” 

“ No, no, Ned,” returned the old man. “ No ! That 
stall be opened when Walter comes home again.” 

“ Well said ! ” cried the captain. “ Hear him ! ” 

“There it lies,” said Sol Gills, “down in the little 
cellar, covered with dirt and cobwebs. There may be 
dirt and cobwebs over you and me perhaps, Ned, before 
it sees the light.” 

“ Hear him ! ” cried the captain. “ Good morality ! 
Wal’r my lad. Train up a fig-tree in the way it should 
go, and when you are old sit under the shade on it 
Overhaul the — Well,” said the captain on second 
thoughts, “ I a’n’t quite certain where that’s to be found ; 
but when found, make a note of. Sol Gills, heave ahead 
again ! ” 

“ But there, or somewhere, it shall lie, Ned, until 
Wally comes back to claim it,” said the old man. “ That’s 
all I meant to say.” 

“ And well said too,” returned the captain ; “ and if 
we three don’t crack that bottle in company, I’ll give you 
two leave to drink my allowance ! ” 

Notwithstanding the captain’s excessive joviality, he 
made but a poor hand at the smoky tongue, though he 
tried very hard, when anybody looked at him, to appear 
as if he were eating with a vast appetite. He was terri- 
bly afraid, likewise, of being left alone with either uncle 
oi' nephew ; appearing to consider that his only chance 
of safety as to keeping up appearances, was in their 
being always three together. This terror on the part of 
the captain, reduced him to such ingenious evasions as 
running to the door, when Solomon went to put his coat 
on, under pretence of having seen an extraordinary 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


73 


hackney-coach pass : and darting out into the road when 
Walter went up-stairs to take leave of the lodgers, on a 
feint of smelling fire in a neighboring chimney. These 
artifices Captain Cuttle deemed inscrutable by any unin- 
spired observer. 

Walter was coming down from his parting expedition 
up-stairs, and was crossing the shop to go back to the 
little parlor, when he saw a faded face he knew, looking 
in at the door, and darted towards it. 

“ Mr. Carker ! ” cried Walter, pressing the hand of 
John Carker the Junior. “ Pray come in ! This is 
kind of you, to be here so early to say good-by to me. 
You knew how glad it would make me to shake hands 
with you, once, before going away. I cannot say how 
glad I am to have this opportunity. Pray come in.” 

“ It is not likely that we may ever meet again 
Walter,” returned the other, gently resisting his invita 
tion, “ and I am glad of this opportunity too. I may 
venture to speak to you, and to take you by the hand 
on the eve of separation. I shall not have to resist youi 
frank approaches, Waiter, any more.” 

There was a melancholy in his smile as he said it, 
that showed he had found some company and friendship 
for his thoughts even in that. 

“ Ah, Mr. Carker ! ” returned Walter. “ Why did 
you resist them ? You could have done me nothing but 
good, I am very sure.” 

He shook his head. “ If there were any good,” he 
said, “ I could do on this earth, I would do it, Walter, 
for you. The sight of you from day to day, has been at 
once happiness and remorse to me. But the pleasure 
has outweighed the pain. I know that, now, by knowing 
what I lose.” 


74 


DOMBEY A KJ SON. 


u Come in, Mr. Carker, and make acquaintance with 
ttjy good old uncle,” urged Walter. “ I have often talked 
to him about you, and he will be glad to tell you all he 
hears from me. I have not,” said Walter, noticing his 
hesitation, and speaking with embarrassment himself : 
w I have not told him anything about our last conver- 
sation Mr. Carker ; not even him, believe me.” 

The gray Junior pressed his hand, and tears rose in 
his eyes. 

“If I ever make acquaintance with him, Walter,” he 
returned, “ it will be that I may hear tidings of you. 
Rely on my not wronging your forbearance and consid- 
eration. It would be to wrong it, not to tell him all the 
truth, before I sought a word of confidence from him. 
But I have no friend or acquaintance except you : and 
even for your sake, am little likely to make any.” 

“ I wish,” said Walter, “ you had suffered me to be 
your friend indeed. I always wished it, Mr. Carker, as 
you know ; but never half so much as now, when we 
are going to part.” 

“ It is enough,” replied the other, “ that you have 
been the friend of my own breast, and that when I have 
avoided you most, my heart inclined the most towards 
you, and was fullest of you. Walter, good-by ! ” 

“ Good-by, Mr. Carker. Heaven be with you, sir ! * 
cried Walter, with emotion. 

“ If,” said the other, retaining his hand while he 
spoke ; “ if when you come back, you miss me from my 
old corner, and should hear from any one where I am 
lying, come and look upon my grave. Think that I 
might have been as honest and as happy as you ! And 
;et me think, when I know my time is cooing on, that 
some one like my former self may stand there, for a 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


75 


moment, and remember me with pity and forgiveness 
Walter, good-by ! ” 

His figure crept like a shadow down the bright, sun- 
lighted street, so cheerful yet so solemn in the early 
summer morning ; and slowly passed away. 

The relentless chronometer at last announced that; 
Walter must turn his back upon the Wooden Midship- 
man : and away they went, himself, his uncle, and the 
captain, in a hackney-coach to a wharf, where they were 
to take steamboat for some Reach down the river, the 
name of which, as the captain gave it out, was a hope- 
dess mystery to the ears of landsmen. Arrived at this 
Reach (whither the ship had repaired by last night’s 
tide), they were boarded by various excited watermen, 
and among others by a dirty Cyclops of the captain’s 
acquaintance, who, with his one eye, had made the cap- 
tain out some mile and a half off, and had been ex- 
changing unintelligible roars with him ever since. Be- 
coming the lawful prize of this personage, who was 
frightfully hoarse and constitutionally in want of shav- 
ing, they were all three put aboard the Son and Heir. 
And the Son and Heir was in a pretty state of confu- 
sion, with sails lying all bedraggled on the wet decks, 
loose ropes tripping people up, men in red shirts run- 
ning barefoot to and fro, casks blockading every foot of 
space, and, in the thickest of the fray, a black cook in a 
black caboose up to his eyes in vegetables and blinded 
with smoke. 

The captain immediately drew Walter into a corner, 
and with a great effort, that made his face very red, 
pulled up the silver watch which was so big, and so 
tight in his pocket, that it came out like a bung. 

“ Wal’r,” said the captain, handing it over, and shak- 


76 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ing him heartily by the hand, “ a parting gift, my lad. 
Put it back half an hour every morning, and about 
another quarter towards the arternoon, and it’s a watch 
that’ll do you credit.” 

“ Captain Cuttle ! I couldn’t think of it ! ” cried Wal- 
ter, detaining him, for he was running away. “ Pray 
take it back. I have one already.” 

“ Then Wal’r,” said the captain, suddenly diving into 
one of his pockets and bringing up the two teaspoons 
and the sugar-tongs, with which he had armed himself 
to meet such an objection, “ Take this here trifle of 
plate, instead.” 

“ No, no, I couldn’t indeed ! ” cried Walter, “ a thou- 
sand thanks ! Don’t throw them away, Captain Cuttle ! ” 
for the captain was about to jerk them overboard. 
“ They’ll be of much more use to you than me. Give 
me your stick. I have often thought that I should like 
to have it. There ! Good-by, Captain Cuttle ! Take 
care of my uncle ! Uncle Sol, God bless you ! ” 

They were over the side in the confusion, before 
Walter caught another glimpse of either ; and when he 
ran up to the stern, and looked after them, he saw his 
uncle hanging down his head in the boat, and Captain 
Cuttle rapping him on the back with the great silvei 
watch (it must have been very painful), and gesticu- 
lating hopefully with the teaspoons and sugar-tongs, 
Catching sight of Walter, Captain Cuttle dropped the 
property into the bottom of the boat with perfect uncon- 
cern, being evidently oblivious of its existence, and pul- 
ling off the glazed hat hailed him lustily. The glazed 
hat made quite a show in the sun with its glistening, and 
the captain continued to wave it until he could be seen 
no longer. Then the confusion on board, which had 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


77 


been rapidly increasing, reached its height ; two or three 
other boats went away with a cheer ; the sails shone 
bright and full above, as Walter watched them spread 
their surface to the favorable breeze; the water flew 
in sparkles from the prow ; and off upon her voyage 
went the Son and Heir, as hopefully and trippingly as 
many another son and heir, gone down, had started on 
his way before her. 

Day after day, Old Sol and Captain Cuttle kept her 
reckoning in the little back parlor and worked out her 
course with the chart spread before them on the round 
table. At night, when old Sol climbed up-stairs, so 
lonely, to the attic where it sometimes blew great guns, 
he looked up at the stars and listened to the wind, and 
kept a longer watch than would have fallen to his lot 
on board the ship. The last bottle of the old Madeira, 
which had had its cruising days, and known its dangers 
of the deep, lay silently beneath its dust and cobwebs, 
in the mean while, undisturbed. 


78 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XX. 

MR. DOMBEY GOES UPON A JOURNEY. 

“ Mr. Dombey, sir,” said Major Bagstock, “ Joey B. 
is not in general a man of sentiment, for Joseph is 
tough. But Joe has his feelings, sir, and when they are 
awakened — Damme, Mr. Dombey,” cried the major 
with sudden ferocity, “ this is weakness, and I won’t sub- 
mit to it ! ” 

Major Bagstock delivered himself of these expressions 
on receiving Mr. Dombey as his guest at the head of his 
own staircase in Princess’s-place. Mr. Dombey had 
come to breakfast with the major, previous to their set- 
ting forth on their trip ; and the ill-starred native had 
already undergone a world of misery arising out of the 
muffins, while, in connection with the general question 
of boiled eggs, life was a burden to him. 

“ It is not for an old soldier of the Bagstock breed,” 
observed the major, relapsing into a mild state, “ to de- 
liver himself up, a prey to his own emotions; but — 
damme, sir,” cried the major, in another spasm of feroc- 
ity, “ I condole with you ! ” 

The major’s purple visage deepened in its hue, and 
the major’s lobster eyes stood out in bolder relief, as he 
shook Mr. Dombey by the hand, imparting to that 
peaceful action as defiant a character as if it had been 
the prelude to his immediately boxing Mr. Dombey for 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


79 


a thousand pounds a side and the championship of Eng- 
land. With a rotatory motion of his head, and a wheeze 
very like the cough of a horse, the major then conducted 
his visitor to the sitting-room, and there welcomed him 
(having now composed his feelings) with the freedom 
and frankness of a travelling companion. 

“ Dombey,” said the major, “ I’m glad to see you. I’m 
proud to see you. There are not many men in Europe 
to whom J. Bagstock would say that — for Josh is blunt, 
sir: it’s his nature — but Joey B. is proud to see you, 
Dombey.” 

“ Major,” returned Mr. Dombey, “ you are very oblig- 
ing.” 

“ No, sir,” said the major, “ Devil a bit ! That’s not 
my character. If that had been Joe’s character, Joe 
might have been, by this time, Lieutenant-General Sir 
Joseph Bagstock, K. C. B., and might have received you 
in very different quarters. You don’t know old Joe yet, 
1 find. But this occasion, being special, is a source of 
pride to me. By the Lord, sir,” said the major, reso- 
lutely, “ it’s an honor to me ! ” 

Mr. Dombey, in his estimation of himself and his 
money, felt that this was very true, and therefore did not 
dispute the point. But the instinctive recognition of 
such a truth by the major, and his plain avowal of it, 
were very agreeable. It was a confirmation to Mr. 
Dombey, if he had required any, of his not being mis- 
taken in the major. It was an assurance to him that his 
power extended beyond his own immediate sphere ; and 
that the major, as an officer and a gentleman, had a no 
less becoming sense of it, than the beadle of the Royal 
Exchange. 

And if it were ever consolatory to know this, or the 


80 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


like of this, it was consolatory then, when the impotence 
of his will, the instability of his hopes, the feebleness of 
wealth, had been so direfully impressed upon him. 
What could it do, his boy had asked him. Sometimes, 
thinking of the baby question, he could hardly forbear 
inquiring, himself, what could it do indeed : what had it 
done ? 

But these were lonely thoughts, bred late at night in 
the sullen despondency and gloom of his retirement, and 
pride easily found its reassurance in many testimonies to 
the truth, as unimpeachable and precious as the major’s. 
Mr. Dombey, in his friendlessness, inclined to the major. 
It cannot be said that he warmed towards him, but he 
thawed a little. The major had had some part — and 
not too much — in the days by the seaside. He was a 
man of the world, and knew some great people. He 
talked much, and told stories ; and Mr. Dombey was dis- 
posed to regard him as a choice spirit who shone in 
society, and who had not that poisonous ingredient of 
poverty with which choice spirits in general are too 
much adulterated. His station was undeniable. Alto- 
gether the major was a creditable companion, well accus- 
tomed to a life of leisure, and to such places as that they 
were about to visit, and having an air of gentlemanly 
ease about him that mixed well enough with his own city 
character, and did not compete with it at all. If Mr. 
Dombey had any lingering idea that the major, as a man 
accustomed, in the way of his calling, to make light of 
the ruthless hand that had lately crushed his hopes, 
might unconsciously impart some useful philosophy to 
him, and scare away his weak regrets, he hid it from 
Himself, and left it lying at the bottom of his pride, un- 
examined. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


81 


“ Where is my scoundrel ! ” said the major, looking 
wrathfully round the room. 

The native, who had no particular name, but answered 
to any vituperative epithet, presented himself instantly 
at the door, and ventured to come no nearer. 

“ You villain ! ” said the choleric major, “ where’s the 
breakfast ? ” 

The dark servant disappeared in search of it, and was 
quickly heard reascending the stairs in such a tremulous 
state, that the plates and dishes on the tray he carried, 
trembling sympathetically as he came, rattled again all 
the way up. 

“ Dombey,” said the major, glancing at the native as 
he arranged the table, and encouraging him with an 
awful shake of his fist when he upset a spoon, “ here is 
a devilled grill, a savory pie, a dish of kidneys, and so 
forth. Pray sit down. Old Joe can give you nothing 
but camp fare, you see.” 

“ Very excellent fare, major,” replied his guest ; and 
not in mere politeness either ; for the major always took 
the best possible care of himself, and indeed ate rather 
more of rich meats than was good for him, insomuch 
that his Imperial complexion was mainly referred by the 
faculty to that circumstance. 

“ You have been looking over the way, sir,” observed 
the major. “ Have you seen our friend ? ” 

“ You mean Miss Tox,” retorted Mr. Dombey. “ No.” 

^ Charming woman, sir,” said the major, with a fat 
laugh rising in his short throat, and nearly suffocating 
him. 

“ Miss Tox is a very good sort of person, I believe,” 
replied Mr. Dombey. 

The haughty coldness of the reply seemed to afford 

VOL. II. 6 


82 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Major Bagstock infinite delight. He swelled and 
swelled, exceedingly ; and even laid down his knife 
and fork for a moment, to rub his hands. 

44 Old Joe, sir,” said the major, 44 was a bit of a favor- 
ite in that quarter once. But Joe has had his day J. 
Bagstock is extinguished — outrivalled — floored, sir. 
I tell you what, Dombey.” The major paused in his 
eating, and looked mysteriously indignant. “ That’s a 
de-vilish ambitious woman, sir.” 

Mr. Dombey said “ Indeed ! ” with frigid indifference : 
mingled perhaps with some contemptuous incredulity as 
to Miss Tox having the presumption to harbor such a 
superior quality. 

44 That woman, sir,” said the major, 44 is, in her way, a 
Lucifer. Joey B. has had his day, sir, but he keeps his 
eyes. He sees, does Joe. His Royal Highness the 
late Duke of Ygrk observed of Joey, at a levee, that 
he saw.” 

The major accompanied this with such a look, and, be- 
tween eating, drinking, hot tea, devilled grill, muffins, 
and meaning, was altogether so swollen and inflamed 
about the head, that even Mr. Dombey showed some 
anxiety for him. 

44 That ridiculous old spectacle, sir,” pursued the major, 
44 aspires. She aspires sky-high, sir. Matrimonially, 
Dombey.” 

44 1 am sorry for her,” said Mr. Dombey. 

44 Don’t say that, Dombey,” returned the major, in a 
warning voice. 

44 Why should I not, major ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

The major gave no answer but the horse’s cough, and 
went on eating v'gorously. 

44 She has taken an interest in your household,” said 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


83 


the major, stopping short again, “ and been a frequent 
visitor at your house for some time now.” 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Dombey with great stateliness, 
“ Miss Tox was originally received there, at the time of 
Mrs. Dombey’s death, as a friend of my sister’s ; and 
being a well-behaved person, and showing a liking for 
the poor infant, she was permitted — I may say encour- 
aged — to repeat her visits, with my sister, and grad- 
ually to occupy a kind of footing of familiarity in the 
family. I have,” said Mr. Dombey, in the tone of a 
man who was making a great and valuable concession, 
“ I have a respect for Miss Tox. She has been so 
obliging as to render many little services in my house : 
trifling and insignificant services perhaps, major, but not 
to be disparaged on that account : and I hope I have 
had the good fortune to be enabled to acknowledge them 
by such attention and notice as it has been in my power 
to bestow. I hold myself indebted to Miss Tox, major,” 
added Mr. Dombey, with a slight wave of his hand, “ for 
the pleasure of your acquaintance.” 

“ Dombey,” said the major warmly ; u no ! No, sir ! 
Joseph Bagstock can never permit that assertion to pass 
uncontradicted. Your knowledge of old Joe, sir, such 
as he is, and old Joe’s knowledge of you, sir, had its 
origin in a noble fellow, sir — in a great creature, sir. 
Dombey ! ” said the major, with a struggle which it was 
not very difficult to parade, his whole life being a strug- 
gle against all kinds of apoplectic symptoms, “ we knew 
each other through your boy.” 

Mr. Dombey seemed touched, as it is not improbable 
♦he major designed he should be, by this allusion. He 
looked down and sighed : and the major, rousing himself 
fiercely, again said, in reference to the state of mind into 


84 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


which he felt himself in danger of falling, that this was 
weakness, and nothing should induce him to submit to it. 

“ Our friend had a remote connection with that event,” 
said the major, “ and all the credit that belongs to her, 
J. B. is willing to give her, sir. Notwithstanding which, 
ma’am,” he added, raising his eyes from his plate, and 
casting them across Princess’s-place, to where Miss Tox 
was at that moment visible at her window watering her 
flowers, “ you’re a scheming jade, ma’am, and your am- 
bition is a piece of monstrous impudence. If it only 
made yourself ridiculous, ma’am,” said the major, rolling 
his head at the unconscious Miss Tox, while his start- 
ing eyes appeared to make a leap towards her, “ you 
might do that to your heart’s content, ma’am, without 
any objection, I assure you, on the part of Bagstock.” 
Here the major laughed frightfully up in the tips of his 
ears and in the veins of his head. “ But when, ma’am,” 
said the major, “ you compromise other people, and gen- 
erous, unsuspicious people too, as a repayment for their 
condescension, you stir the blood of old Joe in his body.” 

“ Major,” said Mr. Dombey, reddening, “ 1 hope you 
do not hint at anything so absurd on the part of Miss 
Tox as ” — 

“ Dombey,” returned the major, “ I hint at nc thing. 
But Joey B. has lived in the world, sir: lived in the 
world with his eyes open, sir, and his ears cocked : and 
Joe tells you, Dombey, that there’s a de-vilish artful and 
ambitious woman over the way.” 

Mr. Dombey involuntarily glanced over the way ; and 
an angry glance he sent in that direction, too. 

“ That’s all on such a subject that shall pass the lips 
of Joseph Bagstock,” said the major firmly. “ Joe is not 
\ tale-bearer, but there are times when he must speak 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


85 


when he will speak ! — confound your arts, ma’am,*' 
cried the major, again apostrophizing his fair neigh- 
bor, with great ire — “when the provocation is too 
strong to admit of his remaining silent.” 

The emotion of this outbreak threw the major into a 
paroxysm of horse’s coughs, which held him for a long 
time. On recovering he added : 

“ And now, Dombey, as you have invited Joe — old 
Joe, who has no other merit, sir, but that he is tough 
and hearty — to be your guest and guide at Leaming- 
ton, command him in any way you please, and he is 
wholly yours. I don’t know, sir,” said the major, wag- 
ging his double chin with a jocose air, “ what it is you 
people see in Joe to make you hold him in such great 
request, all of you ; but this I know, sir, that if he 
wasn’t pretty tough, and obstinate in his refusals, you'd 
kill him among you with your invitations and so forth, 
in double quick time.” 

Mr. Dombey, in a few words, expressed his sense of 
the preference he received over those other distinguished 
members of society who were clamoring for the posses- 
sion of Major Bagstock. But the major cut him short 
by giving him to understand that he followed his own 
inclinations, and that they had risen up in a body and 
said with one accord, “J. B., Dombey is the man for 
you to choose as a friend.” 

The major being by this time in a state of repletion, 
with essence of savory pie oozing out at the corners of 
his eyes, and devilled grill and kidneys tightening his 
cravat : and the time moreover approaching for the de- 
parture of the railway train to Birmingham, by which 
they were to leave town : the native got him into his 
great-ccat with immense difficulty, and buttoned him up 


86 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


until his face looked staring and gasping, over the top 
of that garment, as if he were in a barrel. The native 
then handed him separately, and with a decent interval 
between each supply, his wash-leather gloves, his thick 
stick, and his hat ; which latter article the major wore 
with a rakish air, on one side of his head, by way of 
toning down his remarkable visage. The native had 
previously packed, in all possible and impossible parts 
of Mr. Dombey’s chariot, which was in waiting, an un- 
usual quantity of carpet-bags and small portmanteaus, 
no less apoplectic in appearance than the major himself : 
and having filled his own pockets with Seltzer water, 
East India sherry, sandwiches, shawls, telescopes, maps, 
and newspapers, any or all of which light baggage the 
major might require at any instant of the journey, he 
announced that everything was ready. To complete the 
equipment of this unfortunate foreigner (currently be- 
lieved to be a prince in his own country), when he took 
his seat in the rumble by the side of Mr. Towlinson, a 
pile of the major’s cloaks and great-coats was hurled 
upon him by the landlord, who aimed at him from the 
pavement with those great missiles like a Titan, and so 
covered him up, that he proceeded in a living tomb to 
the railroad station. 

But before the carriage moved away, and while the 
native was in the act of sepulture, Miss Tox appearing 
at her window, waved a lily-white handkerchief. Mr. 
Dombey received this parting salutation very coldly — 
very coldly even for him — and honoring her with the 
slightest possible inclination of his head, leaned back in 
the carriage with a very discontented look. His marked 
behavior seemed to afford the major (who was all polite- 
ness in his recognition of Miss Tox) unbounded satis* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


87 


faction ; and he sat for a long time afterwards, leering, 
and choking, like an over-fed Mephistopheles. 

During the bustle of preparation at the railway, Mr. 
Dombey and the major walked up and down the plat- 
form side by side ; the former taciturn and gloomy, and 
the latter entertaining him, or entertaining himself, with 
a variety of anecdotes and reminiscences, in most of 
which Joe Bagstock was the principal performer. 
Neither of the two observed that in the course of 
these walks, they attracted the attention of a working- 
man who was standing near the engine, and who touched 
his hat every time they passed ; for Mr. Dombey ha- 
bitually looked over the vulgar herd, not at them ; and 
the major was looking, at the time, into the core of one 
of his stories. At length, however, this man stepped 
before them as they turned round, and pulling his 
hat off, and keeping it off, ducked his head to Mr. 
Dombey. 

“ Beg your pardon, sir,” said the man, “ but I hope 
you’re a-doin’ pretty well, sir.” 

He was dressed in a canvas suit abundantly besmeared 
with coal-dust and oil, and had cinders in his whiskers, 
and a smell of half-slaked ashes all over him. He was 
not a bad-looking fellow, nor even what could be fairly 
called a dirty-looking fellow, in spite of this; and, in 
short, he was Mr. Toodle, professionally clothed. 

“ I shall have the honor of stokin’ of you down, sir,” 
said Mr. Toodle. “ Beg your pardon, sir. I hope you 
find yourself a-coming round ! ” 

Mr, Dombey looked at him, in return for his tone of 
interest, as if a man like that would make his very eye- 
sight dirty. 

“’Scuse the liberty, sir,” said Toodle, seeing he was 


68 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


not clearly remembered, “ but my wife Polly, as was 
called Richards in your family” — 

A change in Mr. Dombey’s face, which seemed to ex- 
press recollection of him, and so it did, but it expressed 
in a much stronger degree an angry sense of humilia- 
tion, stopped Mr. Toodle short. 

“ Your wife wants money, I suppose,” said Mr. Dom- 
bey, putting his hand in his pocket, and speaking (but 
that he always did) haughtily. 

“ No thank’ee, sir,” returned Toodle, “ I can’t say she 
does. I don’t.” 

Mr. Dombey was stopped short now in his turn : and 
awkwardly : with his hand in his pocket. 

“ No sir,” said Toodle, turning his oilskin cap round 
and round ; “ we’re a-doin’ pretty well sir ; we haven’t 
no cause to complain in the worldly way, sir. We’ve 
had four more since then, sir, but we rubs on.” 

Mr. Dombey would have rubbed on to his own car- 
riage, though in so doing he had rubbed the stoker un- 
derneath the wheels ; but his attention was arrested by 
something in connection with the cap still going slowly 
round and round in the man’s hand. 

u We lost one babby,” observed Toodle, “ there’s no 
denyin’.” 

“ Lately,” added Mr. Dombey, looking at the cap. 

“ No, sir, up’ard of three years ago, but all the rest is 
hearty. And in the matter o’ readin’ sir,” said Toodle, 
ducking again, as if to remind Mr. Dombey of what had 
passed betwsen them on that subject long ago, “ them 
boys o’ mine, they learned me, among ’em, arter all. 
They’ve made a wery tolerable scholar of me, sir, 
them boys.” 

“ Come, major ! ” said Mr. Dombey. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


89 


“ Beg your pardon, sir,” resumed Toodle, taking a 
Btep before them, and deferentially stopping them again, 
still cap in hand : 44 I wouldn’t have troubled you with 
such a pint except as a way of gettin’ in the name of 
my son Biler — christened Robin — him as you was so 
good as to make a Charitable Grinder on.” 

44 Well, man,” said Mr. Dombey, in his severest man- 
ner. 44 What about him ? ” 

44 Why, sir,” returned Toodle, shaking his head with a 
face of great anxiety and distress. 44 I’m forced to say, 
sir, that he’s gone wrong.” 

44 He has gone wrong, has he ? ” said Mr. Dombey, 
with a hard kind of satisfaction. 

44 He has fell into bad company, you see, gentlemen,” 
pursued the father, looking wistfully at both, and evi- 
dently taking the major into the conversation with the 
hope of having his sympathy. 44 He has got into bad 
ways. God send he may come to again, genelmen, but 
he’s on the wrong track now ! You could hardly be off 
hearing of it somehow, sir,” said Toodle, again address- 
ing Mr. Dombey individually ; 44 and it’s better I should 
out and say my boy’s gone rather wrong. Polly’s dread- 
ful down about it, gentelmen,” said Toodle with the 
same dejected look, and another appeal to the major. 

44 A son of this man’s whom I caused to be educated, 
major,” said Mr. Dombey, giving him his arm. 44 The 
usual return ! ” 

44 Take advice from plain old Joe, and never educate 
that sort of people, sir,” returned the major. 44 Damme, 
sir, it never does ! It always fails ! ” 

The simple father was beginning to submit that he 
noped his son, the quondam Grinder, huffed and cuffed, 
and flogged and badged, and ta lght, as parrots are, by a 


ao 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


brute jobbed into his place of schoolmaster with as much 
fitness for it as a hound, might not have been educated 
on quite a right plan in some undiscovered respect, when 
Mr. Dombey angrily repeating “ The usual return ! ” led 
the major away. And the major being heavy to hoist 
in to Mr. Dombey’s carriage, elevated in mid-air, and 
having to stop and swear that he would flay the native 
alive, and break every bone in his skin, and visit other 
physical torments upon him, every time he couldn’t get 
his foot on the step, and fell back on that dark exile, had 
barely time before they started to repeat hoarsely that it 
would never do : that it always failed : and that if he 
were to educate “ his own vagabond,” he would certainly 
be hanged. 

Mr. Dombey assented bitterly ; but there was some- 
thing more in his bitterness, and in his moody way of 
falling back in the carriage, and looking with knitted 
brows at the changing objects without, than the failure 
of that noble educational system administered by the 
Grinders’ Company. He had seen upon the man’s 
rough cap a piece of new crape, and he had assured 
himself, from his manner and his answers, that he wore 
it for his son. 

So ! from high to low, at home or abroad, from Flor- 
ence in his great house to the coarse churl who was feed- 
ing the fire then smoking before them, every one set up 
some claim or other to a share in his dead boy, and was 
a bidder against him ! Could he ever forget how that 
woman had wept over his pillow, and called him her own 
child ! or how he, waking from his sleep, had asked for 
her, and had raised himself in his bed and brightened 
when she came in ’ 

To think of this presumptuous raker among coals and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


91 


ashes going on before there, with his sign of mourning! 
To think that he dared to enter, even by a common 
show like that, into the trial and disappointment of a 
proud gentleman’s secret heart ! To think that this lost 
child, who was to have divided with him his riches, and 
his projects, and his power, and allied with whom he was 
to have shut out all the world as with a double door of 
gold, should have let in such a herd to insult him with 
their knowledge of his defeated hopes, and their boasts 
of claiming community of feeling with himself, so far 
removed : if not of having crept into the place wherein 
he would have lorded it alone ! 

He found no pleasure or relief in the journey. Tor- 
tured by these thoughts, he carried monotony with him, 
through the rushing landscape, and hurried headlong, not 
through a rich and varied country, but a wilderness of 
blighted plans and gnawing jealousies. The very speed 
at which the train was whirled along mocked the swift 
course of the young life that had been borne away so 
steadily and so inexorably to its fore-doomed end. The 
power that forced itself upon its iron way — its own — 
defiant of all paths and roads, piercing through the heart 
of every obstacle, and dragging living creatures of all 
classes, ages, and degrees behind it, was a type of the 
triumphant monster Death ! 

Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from 
the town, burrowing among the dwellings of men and 
making the streets hum, flashing out into the meadows 
for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, boom- 
ing on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into 
the sunny day so bright and wide ; away, with a shriek, 
and a roar, and a rattle, through the fields, through the 
woods, through the corn, through the hay, through the 


92 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the 
rock, among objects close at hand and almost in the 
grasp, ever flying from the traveller, and a deceitful 
distance ever moving slowly within him : like as in the 
track of the remorseless monster, Death ! 

Through the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by 
the orchard, by the park, by the garden, over the canal, 
across the river, where the sheep are feeding, where the 
mill is going, where the barge is floating, where the dead 
are lying, where the factory is smoking, where the stream 
is running, where the village clusters, where the great 
cathedral rises, where the bleak moor lies, and the wild 
breeze smooths or ruffles it at its inconstant will ; away, 
with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, and no trace to 
leave behind but dust and vapor : like as in the track of 
the remorseless monster, Death ! 

Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sun- 
shine, away, and still away, it rolls and roars, fierce and 
rapid, smooth and certain, and great works and massive 
bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of shadow an 
inch broad, upon the eye, and then are lost. Away, and 
still away, onward and onward ever : glimpses of cot- 
tage-homes, of houses, mansions, rich estates, of hus- 
bandry and handicraft, of people, of old roads and paths 
that look desertel, small, and insignificant as they are 
left behind ; and so they do, and what else is there but 
such glimpses, in the track of the indomitable monster, 
Death ! 

Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, plunging 
down into the earth again, and working on in such a 
storm of energy and perseverance, that amidst the dark- 
ness and whirlwind the motion seems reversed, and to 
tend furiously backward, until a ray of light upon the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


93 


wet wall shows its surface flying past like a fierce 
stream. Away once more into the day, and through the 
day, with a shrill yell of exultation, roaring, rattling, 
tearing on, spurning everything with its dark breath, 
sometimes pausing for a minute where a crowd of faces 
are, that in a minute more are not : sometimes lapping 
water greedily, and before the spout at which it drinks 
has ceased to drip upon the ground, shrieking, roaring, 
rattling through the purple distance ! 

Louder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes 
tearing on resistless to the goal ; and now its way, still 
like the way of Death, is strewn with ashes thickly. 
Everything around is blackened. There are dark pools 
of water, muddy lanes, and miserable habitations far 
below. There are jagged walls and falling houses close 
at hand, and through the battered roofs and broken win- 
dows, wretched rooms are seen, where want and fever 
hide themselves in many wretched shapes, while smoke 
and crowded gables, and distorted chimneys, and defor- 
mity of brick and mortar penning up deformity of mind 
and body, choke the murky distance. As Mr. Dombey 
looks out of his carriage-window, it is never in his 
thoughts that the monster who has brought him there 
has let the light of day in on these things : not made 
or caused them. It was the journey’s fitting end, and 
might have been the end of everything ; it was so ruin- 
ous and dreary. 

So, pursuing the one course of thought, he had the 
one relentless monster still before him. All things 
looked black, and cold, and deadly upon him, and he on 
them. He found a likeness to his misfortune every- 
where. There was a remorseless triumph going on 
about him, and it galled and stung him in his pride and 


94 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


jealousy, whatever form it took : though most of all 
when it divided with him the love and memory of his 
lost boy. 

There was a face — he had looked upon it, on the 
previous night, and it on him with eyes that read his 
soul, though they were dim with tears, and hidden soon 
behind two quivering hands — that often had attended 
him in fancy — on this ride. He had seen it, with 
the expression of last night, timidly pleading to him. It 
was not reproachful, but there was something of doubt, 
almost of hopeful incredulity in it, which, as he once 
more saw that fade away into a desolate certainty of his 
dislike, was like reproach. It was a trouble to him to 
think of this face of Florence. 

Because he felt any new compunction towards it ? 
No. Because the feeling it awakened in him — of which 
he had had some old foreshadowing in older times — 
was full-formed now, and spoke out plainly, moving 
him too much, and threatening to grow too strong for 
his composure. Because the face was abroad, in the 
expression of defeat and persecution that seemed to 
encircle him like the air. Because it barbed the arrow 
of that cruel and remorseless enemy on which his 
thoughts so ran, and put into its grasp a double-handed 
sword. Because he knew full well, in his own breast, 
as he stood there, tinging the scene of transition before 
him with the morbid colors of his own mind, and making 
it a ruin and a picture of decay, instead of hopeful 
change, and promise of better things, that life had quite 
as much to do with his complainings as death. One child 
was gone, and one child left. Why was the object of 
his hope removed instead of her ? 

The sweet, calm, gentle presence in his fancy, moved 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


95 


him to no reflection but that. She had been nnwelcome 
to him from the first ; she was an aggravation of his bit- 
terness now. If his son had been his only child, and the 
same blow had fallen on him, it would have been heavy 
to bear; but infinitely lighter than now, when it might 
have fallen on her (whom he could have lost, or he be- 
lieved it, without a pang), and had not. Her loving and 
innocent face rising before him, had no softening or win- 
ning influence. He rejected the angel, and took up with 
the tormenting spirit crouching in his bosom. Her pa- 
tience, goodness, youth, devotion, love, were as so many 
atoms in the ashes upon which he set his heel. He saw 
her image in the blight and blackness all around him, not 
irradiating but deepening the gloom. More than once 
upon this journey, and now again as he stood pondering 
at this journey’s end, tracing figures in the dust with his 
stick, the thought came into his mind, what was there he 
could interpose between himself and it ? 

The major, who had been blowing and panting all the 
way down, like another engine, and whose eye had often 
wandered from his newspaper to leer at the prospect, as 
if there were a great procession of discomfited Miss 
Toxes pouring out in the smoke of the train, and flying 
away over the fields to hide themselves in any place of 
refuge, aroused his friend by informing him that the 
post-horses were harnessed and the carriage ready. 

“Dombey,” said the major, rapping him on the arm 
with his cane, “ don’t be thoughtful. It’s a bad habit. 
Old Joe, sir, wouldn’t be as tough as you see him, if he 
had ever encouraged it. You are too great a man, Dom- 
bey, to be thoughtful. In your position, sir, you’re far 
above that kind of thing.” 

The major, even in his friendly remonstrances, thus 


96 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


consulting the dignity and honor of Mr. Dombey, and 
showing a lively sense of their importance, Mr. Dombey 
felt more than ever disposed to defer to a gentleman pos- 
sessing so much good sense and such a well-regulated 
mind ; accordingly he made an effort to listen to the 
najor’s stories, as they trotted along the turnpike-road; 
and the major, finding both the pace and the road a great 
deal better adapted to his conversational powers than the 
mode of travelling they had just relinquished, came out 
for his entertainment. 

In this flow of spirits and conversation, only inter- 
rupted by his usual plethoric symptoms, and by intervals 
of lunch, and from time to time by some violent assault 
upon the native, who wore a pair of ear-rings in his dark- 
brown ears, and on whom his European clothes sat with 
an outlandish impossibility of adjustment — being, of 
their own accord, and without any reference to the tai- 
lor’s art, long where they ought to be short, short where 
they ought to be long, tight where they ought to be 
loose, and loose where they ought to be tight — and to 
which he imparted a new grace, whenever the major 
attacked him, by shrinking into them like a shrivelled 
nut, or a cold monkey — in this flow of spirits and con- 
versation, the major continued all day : so that when 
evening came on, and found them trotting through the 
green and leafy road near Leamington, the major’s voice, 
what with talking and eating and chuckling and choking, 
appeared to be in the box under the rumble, or in some 
neighboring haystack. Nor did the major improve it at 
the Royal Hotel, where rooms and dinner had been or- 
dered, and where he so oppressed his organs of speech 
by eating and drinking, that when he retired to bed he 
had no voice at all, except to cough with, and could only 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


97 


make himself intelligible to the dark servant by gasping 
at him. 

He not only rose next morning, however, like a giant 
refreshed, but conducted himself, at breakfast, like a giant 
refreshing. At this meal they arranged their daily 
habits. The major was to take the responsibility of 
ordering everything to eat and drink ; and they were to 
have a late breakfast together every morning, and a late 
dinner together every day. Mr. Dombey would prefer 
remaining in his own room, or walking in the country by 
himself, on that first day of their sojourn at Leamington ; 
but next morning he would be happy to accompany the 
major to the Pump-room, and about the town. So they 
parted until dinner-time. Mr. Dombey retired to nurse 
his wholesome thoughts in his own way. The major, 
attended by the native carrying a camp-stool, a great- 
coat, and an umbrella, swaggered up and down through 
all the public places ; looking into subscription books to 
find out who was there, looking up old ladies by whom 
he was much admired, reporting J. B. tougher than ever, 
and puffing his rich friend Dombey wherever he went. 
There never was a man who stood by a friend more 
stanchly than the major, when in puffing him, he puffed 
himself. 

It was surprising how much new conversation the 
major had to let off at dinner-time, and what occasion 
he gave Mr. Dombey to admire his social qualities. At 
breakfast next morning, he knew the contents of the 
latest newspapers received ; and mentioned several sub- 
jects in connection with them, on which his opinion had 
recently been sought by persons of such power and 
might, that they were only to be obscurely hinted at. 
Mr. Dombey, who had been so long shut up within him- 

VOL. II. 7 


98 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


self, and who had rarely, at any time, overstepped the 
enchanted circle within which the operations of Dombey 
and Son were conducted, began to think this an improve 
ment on his solitary life ; and in place of excusing hfrn 
self for another day, as he had thought of doing when 
alone, walked out with the major arm-in-arm. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


90 


CHAPTER XXL 

NEW FACES. 

The major, more blue-faced and staring — more over- 
ripe, as it were, than ever — -and giving vent, every now 
and then, to one of the horse’s coughs, not so much of 
necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of importance, 
walked arm-in-arm with Mr. Doinbey up the sunny side 
of the way, with his cheeks swelling over his tight stock, 
his legs majestically wide apart, and his great head wag- 
ging from side to side, as if he were remonstrating within 
himself for being such a captivating object. They had 
not walked many yards before the major encountered 
somebody he knew, nor many yards farther before the 
major encountered somebody else he knew, but he merely 
shook his fingers at them as he passed, and led Mr. Dom- 
bey on : pointing out the localities as they went, and 
enlivening the walk with any current scandal suggested 
by them. 

In this manner the major and Mr. Dombey were 
walking arm-in-arm, much to their own satisfaction, 
when they beheld advancing towards them a wheeled 
chair, in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her 
carriage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was pro- 
pelled by some unseen power in the rear. Although the 
lady was not young, she was very blooming in the face 
— quite rosy — and her dress and attitude were per- 


100 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


fectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chair, and 
carrying her gossamer parasol with a proud and weary 
air, as if so great an effort must be soon abandoned, and 
the parasol dropped, sauntered a much younger lady, 
very handsome, very haughty, very wilful, who tossed 
her head and drooped her eyelids, as though, if there 
were anything in all the world worth looking into, save 
a mirror, it certainly was not the earth or sky. 

“ Why, what the devil have we here, sir ! ” cried the 
major, stopping as this little cavalcade drew near. 

“ My dearest Edith ! ” drawled the lady in the chair, 
“ Major Bagstock ! ” 

The major no sooner heard the voice, than he relin- 
quished Mr. Dombey’s arm, darted forward, took the 
hand of the lady in the chair and pressed it to his lips. 
With no less gallantry the major folded both his gloves 
upon his heart and bowed low to the other lady. And 
now, the chair having stopped, the motive power became 
visible in the shape of a flushed page pushing behind, 
who seemed to have in part outgrown and in part out- 
pushed his strength, for when he stood upright he was 
tall, and wan, and thin, and his plight appeared the 
more forlorn from his having injured the shape of his 
hat, by butting at the carriage with his head to urge it 
forward, as is sometimes done by elephants in Oriental 
countries. 

“ Joe Bagstock,” said the major to both ladies, “ is a 
proud and happy man for the rest of his life.” 

“ You false creature,” said the old lady in the chair, 
insipidly. “ Where do you come from ? I can’t bear 
you.” 

“Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, ma’am,” said 
the major, promptly, “as a reason for being tolerated. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


101 


Mr Dombey, Mrs. Skewton.” The lady in the chair 
was gracious. “ Mr. Dombey, Mrs. Granger.” The 
lady with the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr. Dom- 
bey’s taking off his hat, and bowing low. “ I am de- 
lighted, sir,” said the major, “ to have this opportunity.” 

The major seemed in earnest, for he looked at all the 
three and leered in his ugliest manner. 

“ Mrs. Skewton, Dombey,” said the major, “ makes 
havoc in the heart of old Josh.” 

Mr. Dombey signified that he didn’t wonder at it. 

“ You perfidious goblin,” said the lady in the chair, 
“have done! How long have you been here, bad 
man ? ” 

“ One day,” replied the major. 

“ And can you be a day, or even a minute,” returned 
the lady, slightly settling her false curls and false eye- 
brows with her fan, and showing her false teeth, set off 
by her false complexion, u in the garden of what’s-its- 
name ” — 

“ Eden, I suppose, mama,” interrupted the younger 
lady, scornfully. 

“ My dear Edith,” said the other, “ I cannot help it. 
I never can remember those frightful names — without 
having your whole soul and being inspired by the sight 
of nature ; by the perfume,” said Mrs. Skewton, rustling 
a handkerchief that was faint and sickly with essences, 
u of her artless breath, you creature ! ” 

The discrepancy between Mrs. Skewton’s fresh enthu- 
siasm of words, and forlornly faded manner, was hardly 
less observable than that between her age, which was 
about seventy, and her dress, which would have been 
youthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled 
ahair (which she never varied) was one in which she 


102 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


had been taken in a barouche, some fifty years before, 
by a then fashionable artist, who had appended to his 
published sketch the name of Cleopatra : in consequence 
of a discovery made by the critics of the time, that it 
bore an exact resemblance to that princess as she re- 
clined on board her galley. Mrs. Skewton was a beauty 
then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by 
dozens in her honor. The beauty and the barouche had 
both passed away, but she still preserved the attitude, 
and for this reason expressly, maintained the wheeled 
chair and the butting page : there being nothing what- 
ever, except the attitude, to prevent her from walking. 

“ Mr. Dombey is devoted to nature, I trust ? ” said 
Mrs. Skewton, settling her diamond brooch. And by 
the way, she chiefly lived upon the reputation of some 
diamonds, and her family connections. 

“ My friend Dombey, ma’am,” returned the major, 
“ may be devoted to her in secret, but a man who is par- 
amount in the greatest city in the universe ” — 

“ No one can be a stranger,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ to 
Mr. Dombey’s immense influence.” 

As Mr. Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a 
bend of his head, the younger lady glancing at him, met 
his eyes 

“You reside here, madam?” said Mr. Dombey, ad- 
dressing her. 

“ No, we have been to a great many places. To Har- 
rogate, and Scarborough, and into Devonshire. We 
have been visiting, and resting here and there. Mama 
likes change.” 

“Edith of course does not,” said Mrs. Skewton, with 
r ghastly archness. 

“ I have not found that there is any change in such 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


103 


places,” was the answer, delivered with supreme indiffer- 
ence. r 

“They libel me. There is only one change, Mr. 
Dombey,” observed Mrs. Skewton, with a mincing sigh, 
“ for which I really care, and that I fear I shall never 
be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But 
seclusion and contemplation are my what’s-his-name ” — • 
“ If you mean Paradise, mama, you had better say so, 
to render yourself intelligible,” said the younger lady. 

u My dearest Edith,” returned Mrs. Skewton, “ you 
know that I am wholly dependent upon you for those 
odious names. I assure you, Mr. Dombey, Nature in- 
tended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in 
society. Cows are my passion. What I have ever 
sighed for, has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live 
entirely surrounded by cows — and china.” 

This curious association of objects, suggesting a re- 
membrance of the celebrated bull who got by mistake 
into a crockery shop, was received with perfect gravity 
by Mr. Dombey, who intimated his opinion that Nature 
was, no doubt, a very respectable institution. 

“What I want,” drawled Mrs. Skewton, pinching her 
shrivelled throat, “ is heart.” It was frightfully true in 
one sense, if not in that in which she used the phrase. 
“ What I want is frankness, confidence, less convention- 
ality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully 
artificial.” 

We were, indeed. 

“ In short,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ I want nature every- 
where. It would be so extremely charming.” 

“ Nature is inviting us away now, mama, if you are 
ready,” said the younger lady, curling her handsome lip. 
At this hint, the wan page, who had been surveying the 


104 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


party over the top of the chair, vanished behind it, as if 
the ground had swallowed him up. 

“ Stop a moment, Withers ! ” said Mrs. Skewton, as 
the chair began to move ; calling to the page with all the 
languid dignity with which she had called in days of yore 
to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower nosegay, and silk 
stockings. “ Where are you staying, abomination ? ” 

The major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with his 
friend Dombey. 

“ You may come and see us any evening when you 
are good,” lisped Mrs. Skewton. “ If Mr. Dombey will 
honor us, we shall be happy. Withers, go on ! ” 

The major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the 
fingers that were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled 
chair with careful carelessness ; after the Cleopatra 
model: and Mr. Dombey bowed. The elder lady hon- 
ored them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish 
wave of her hand ; the younger lady with the very 
slightest inclination of her head that common courtesy 
allowed. 

The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, 
with that patched color on it which the sun made infin- 
itely more haggard and dismal than any want of color 
could have been, and of the proud beauty of the daugh- 
ter with her graceful figure and erect deportment, engen- 
dered such an involuntary disposition on the part of both 
the major and Mr. Dombey to look after them, that they 
both turned at the same moment. The page, nearly as 
much aslant as his own shadow, was toiling after the 
chair, up-hill, like a slow battering-ram : the tcp of 
Cleopatra’s bonnet was fluttering in exactly the same 
corner to the inch as before ; and the Beauty, loitering 
by herself a little in advance, expressed in all her ele- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


105 


gant form, from head to foot, the same supreme disregard 
of everything and everybody. 

“ I tell you what, sir,” said the major, as they resumed 
their walk again. “If Joe Bagstock were a younger 
man, there’s not a woman in the world whom he’d prefer 
for Mrs. Bagstock to that woman. By George, sir ! ” 
said the major, “ she’s superb ! ” 

“ Do you mean the daughter ? ” inquired Mr. Dombey. 

“ Is Joey B. a turnip, Dombey,” said the major, “ that 
he should mean the mother ! ” 

“ You were complimentary to the mother,” returned 
Mr. Dombey. 

“ An ancient flame, sir,” chuckled Major Bagstock. 
“ De-vilish ancient. I humor her.” 

“ She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,” said 
Mr. Dombey. 

“ Genteel, sir,” said the major, stopping short, and 
staring in his companion’s face. “ The Honorable Mrs. 
Skewton, sir, is sister to the late Lord Feenix, and aunt 
to the present lord. The family are not wealthy — 
they’re poor, indeed — and she lives upon a small 
jointure ; but if you come to blood, sir ! ” The major 
gave a flourish with his stick and walked on again, in 
despair of being able to say what you came to, if you 
came to that. 

“You addressed the daughter, I observed,” said Mr. 
Dombey, after a short pause, “ as Mrs. Granger ” 

“ Edith Skewton, sir,” returned the major, stopping 
short again, and punching a mark in the ground with his 
cane, to represent her, “ married (at eighteen) Granger 
of Ours ; ” whom the major indicated by another punch. 



portrait, and rolling his head emphatically, “ was Colonel 


106 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


of Ours ; a de-vilish handsome fellow, sir, of forty-one, 
He died, sir, in the second year of his marriage.” The 
major ran the representative of the deceased Granger 
through and through the body with his walking-stick, and 
went on again, carrying his stick over his shoulder. 

“ How long is this ago ? ” asked Mr. Dombey, making 
another halt. 

“ Edith Granger, sir,” replied the major, shutting one 
eye, putting his head on one side, passing his cane into 
his left hand, and smoothing his shirt-frill with his right, 
“ is, at this present time, not quite thirty. And, damme, 
sir,” said the major, shouldering his stick once more, and 
walking on again, “ she’s a peerless woman ! ” 

“ Was there any family ? ” asked Mr. Dombey, pres- 
ently. 

“ Yes, sir,” said the major. “ There was a boy.” 

Mr. Dombey’s eyes sought the ground, and a shade 
came over his face. 

“ Who was drowned, sir,” pursued the major, “ when a 
child of four or five years old.” 

“ Indeed ? ” said Mr. Dombey, raising his head. 

“ By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no 
business to have put him,” said the major. “ That’s his 
history. Edith Granger is Edith Granger still ; but if 
tough old Joey B., sir, were a little younger and a little 
richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be 
Bagstock.” 

The major heaved his shoulders, and his cheeks, and 
laughed more like an overfed Mephistopheles than ever, 
as he said the words. 

“Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose?” 
said Mr. Dombey coldly. 

“ By Gad, sir,” said the major, “ the Bagstock breed 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


107 


are not accustomed to that sort of obstacle. Though it’s 
true enough that Edith might have married twen-ty 
times, but for being proud, sir, proud.” 

Mr. Dombey seemed, by his face, to think no worse, 
of her for that. 

“ It’s a great quality after all,” said the major. “ By 
the Lord, it’s a high quality ! Dombey ! You are proud 
yourself, and your friend, old Joe, respects you for it, 
sir. 

With this tribute to the character of his ally, which 
seemed to be wrung from him by the force of circum- 
stances and the irresistible tendency of their conversa- 
tion, the major closed the subject, and glided into a 
general exposition of the extent to which he had been 
beloved and doted on by splendid women and brilliant 
creatures. 

On the next day but one, Mr. Dombey and the major 
encountered the Honorable Mrs. Skewton and her daugh- 
ter in the pump-room ; on the day after, they met them 
again very near the place where they had met them first. 
After meeting them thus, three or four times in all, it 
became a point of mere civility to old acquaintances, 
that the major should go there one evening. Mr. Dom- 
bey had not originally intended to pay visits, but on the 
major announcing this intention, he said he would have 
the pleasure of accompanying him. So the major told 
the Native to go round before dinner, and say, with his 
and Mr. Dombey’s compliments, that they would have 
1 the honor of visiting the ladies that same evening, if the 
adies were alone. In answer to which message, the 
Native brought back a very small note with a very large 
quantity of scent about it, indited by the Honorable Mrs. 
Skewton to Major Bagstock, and briefly saying, “ You 


108 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


are a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to for- 
give you, but if you are very good indeed/’ which was 
underlined, “ you may come. Compliments (in which 
Edith unites) to Mr. Dombey.” 

The Honorable Mrs. Skew ton and her daughter, Mrs. 
Granger, resided while at Leamington, in lodgings that 
were fashionable enough and dear enough, but rather 
limited in point of space and conveniences ; so that the 
Honorable Mrs. Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in 
the window and her head in the fire-place, while the 
Honorable Mrs. Skewton’s maid was quartered in a 
closet within the drawing-room, so extremely small, that, 
to avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she 
was obliged to writhe in and out of the door like a beau- 
tiful serpent. Withers, the wan page, slept out of the 
house immediately under the tiles at a neighboring milk- 
shop ; and the wheeled chair, which was the stone of 
that young Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed belong- 
ing to the same dairy, where new-laid eggs were pro- 
duced by the poultry connected with the establishment, 
who roosted on a broken donkey-cart, persuaded, to all 
appearance, that it grew there, and was a species of 
tree. 

Mr. Dombey and the major found Mrs. Skewton ar- 
ranged, as Cleopatra, among the cushions of a sofa ; very 
airily dressed ; and certainly not resembling Shakspeare’s 
Cleopatra, whom age could not wither. On their way up- 
stairs they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had 
ceased on their being announced, and Edith now stood 
beside it handsomer and haughtier than ever. It was a 
remarkable characteristic of this lady’s beauty that it 
appeared to vaunt and assert itself without her aid, and 
against her will. She knew that she was beautiful : it 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


109 


was impossible that it could be otherwise : but she seemed 
with her own pride to defy her very self. 

Whether she held cheap, attractions that could only 
call forth admiration that was worthless to her, or whether 
she designed to render them more precious to admirers 
by this usage of them, those to whom they were precious 
seldom paused to consider. 

“ I hope, Mrs. Granger,” said Mr. Dombey, advancing 
a step towards her, “ we are not the cause of your ceas- 
ing to play ? ” 

“ You ? oh no ! ” 

“ Why do you not go on, then, my dearest Edith ? " 
said Cleopatra. 

“ I left off as I began — of my own fancy.” 

The exquisite indifference of her manner in saying 
this: an indifference quite removed from dulness or in- 
sensibility, for it was pointed with proud purpose : was 
well set off by the carelessness with which she drew her 
hand across the strings, and came from that part of the 
room. 

“ Do you know, Mr. Dombey,” said her languishing 
mother, playing with a hand-screen, “ that occasionally 
my dearest Edith and myself actually almost differ” — 

“ Not quite, sometimes, mama ? ” said Edith. 

“ Oh never quite, my darling ! Fie, fie, it would break 
my heart,” returned her mother, making a faint attempt 
to pat her with the screen, which Edith made no move- 
ment to meet, — “ about these cold conventionalities of 
manner that are observed in little things ? Why are we 
not more natural ! Dear me ! With all those yearnings, 
and gushings, and impulsive throbbings that we have im- 
planted in our souls, and which are so very charming, 
why are we not more natural?” 


j 


110 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Mr. Dombey said it was very true, very true. 

“We could be more natural I suppose if we tried?” 
said Mrs. Skewton. 

Mr. Dombey thought it possible. 

“ Devil a bit, ma’am,” said the major. “ We couldn’t 
afford it. Unless the world was peopled with J. B.’s — 
tough and blunt old Joes, ma’am, plain red herrings with 
hard roes, sir — we couldn’t afford it. It wouldn’t do.” 

“You naughty infidel,” said Mrs. Skewton, “be mute.” 

“ Cleopatra commands,” returned the major, kissing his 
hand, “and Antony Bagstock obeys.” 

“ The man lias no sensitiveness,” said Mrs. Skewton. 
cruelly holding up the hand-screen so as to shut the 
major out. “ No sympathy. And what do we live for 
but sympathy ! What else is so extremely charming ! 
Without that gleam of sunshine on our cold cold earth,” 
said Mrs. Skewton, arranging her lace tucker, and com- 
placently observing the effect of her bare lean arm, 
looking upward from the wrist, “ how could we possibly 
bear it ? In short, obdurate man ! ” glancing at the 
major, round the screen, “ I would have my world all 
heart; and Faith is so excessively charming, that I won’t 
allow you to disturb it, do you hear ? ” 

The major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to 
require the world to be all heart, and yet to appropriate 
to herself the hearts of all the world ; which obliged 
Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was insupportable 
to her, and that if he had the boldness to address her 
in that strain any more, she would positively send him 
home. 

Withers the Wan, at this period, handing round the 
tea, Mr. Dombey again addressed himself to Edith. 

“ There is not much company here, it would seem ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Ill 


said Mr. Dombey, in his own portentous gentlemanly 
way. 

“ I believe not. We see none.” 

“ Why really,” observed Mrs. Skewton from her couch, 
“there are no people here just now with whom we care 
to associate.” 

“They have not enough heart,” said Edith, with a 
smile. The very twilight of a smile : so singularly were 
its light and darkness blended. 

“ My dearest Edith rallies me, you see ! ” said her 
mother, shaking her head : which shook a little of itself 
sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled now and then in op- 
position to the diamonds. “ Wicked one ! ” 

“ You have been here before, if I am not mistaken ? ” 
said Mr. Dombey. Still to Edith. 

“ Oh, several times. I think we have been every- 
where.” 

“ A beautiful country ! ” 

“ I suppose it is. Everybody says so.” 

“Your cousin Feenix raves about it Edith,” interposed 
her mother from her couch. 

The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and 
raising her eyebrows by a hair’s-breadth as if her cousin 
Feenix were of all the mortal world the least to be re- 
garded, turned her eyes again towards Mr. Dombey. 

“I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I ara 
tired of the neighborhood,” she said. 

“ You have almost reason to be, madam,” he replied, 
glancing at a variety of landscape drawings, of which he 
had already recognized several as representing neighbor- 
ing points of view, and which were strewn abundantly 
about the room, “ if these beautiful productions are from 
your hand. ’ 


112 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


% 

- She gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, 
quite amazing. 

“ Have they that interest ? ” said Mr. Dombey. “ Are 
they yours ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you play, I already know.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And sing.” 

“ Yes.” 

She answered all these questions with a strange reluc- 
tance ; and with that remarkable air of opposition to her- 
self, already noticed as belonging to her beauty. Yet 
she was not embarrassed, but wholly self-possessed. 
Neither did she seem to wish to avoid the conversation, 
for she addressed her face, and — so far as she could — 
her manner also, to him ; and continued to do so, when 
he was silent. 

“ You have many resources against weariness at least,” 
said Mr. Dombey. 

“Whatever their efficiency may be,” she returned, 
“ you know them all now. I have no more.” 

“ May I hope to prove them all ? ” said Mr. Dombey, 
with solemn gallantry, laying down a drawing he had 
held, and motioning towards the harp. 

u Oh certainly ! If you desire it ! ” 

She rose as she spoke, and crossing by her mother’s 
couch, and directing a stately look towards her, which 
was instantaneous in its duration, but inclusive (if any 
one had seen it) of a multitude of expressions, among 
which that of the twilight smile, without the smile itself, 
overshadowed all the rest, went out of the room. 

The major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had 
wheeled a little table up to Cleopatra, and was sitting 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


113 


down to play piquet with her. Mr. Dombey, not know- 
ing the game, sat down to watch them for his edification 
until Edith should return. 

“We are going to have some music, Mr. Dombey, I 
hope?” said Cleopatra. 

“ Mrs. Granger has been kind enough to promise so,” 
said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Ah ! That’s very nice. Do you propose, major ? ” 

“ No, ma’am,” said the major. “ Couldn’t do it.” 

You’re a barbarous being,” replied the lady, “ and 
my hand’s destroyed. You are fond of music, Mr. 
Dombey ? ” 

“ Eminently so,” was Mr. Dombey’s answer. 

“ Yes. It’s very nice,” said Cleopatra, looking at her 
cards. “ So much heart in it — - undeveloped recollec- 
tions of a previous state of existence — and all that — 
which is so truly charming. Do you know,” simpered 
Cleopatra, T^/ersing the knave of clubs, who had come 
into her game with his heels uppermost, “ that if any- 
thing could tempt me to put a period to my life, it 
would be curiosity to find out what it’s all about, and 
what it means ; there are so many provoking mysteries, 
really, that are hidden from us. Major, you to play ! ” 

The major played ; and Mr. Dombey looking on for 
his instruction, would soon have been in a state of dire 
confusion, but that he gave no attention to the game 
whatever, and sat wondering instead when Edith would 
come back. 

She came at last, and sat down to her harp, and Mr. 
Dombey rose and stood beside her, listening. He had 
little taste for music, and no knowledge of the strain she 
played, but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps he 
heard among the sounding strings some distant music of 

VOL. II. 8 


114 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


his own, that tamed the monster of the iron road, and 
made it less inexorable. 

Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at piquet. It glis- 
tened like a bird’s, and did not fix itself upon the game, 
but pierced the room from end to end, and gleamed on 
harp, performer, listener, everything. 

When the haughty beauty had concluded, she arose, 
and receiving Mr. Dombey’s thanks and compliments in 
exactly the same manner as before, went with scarcely 
any pause, to the piano, and began there. 

Edith Granger, any song but that ! Edith Granger, 
you are very handsome, and your touch upon the keys is 
brilliant, and your voice is deep and rich ; but not the 
air that his neglected daughter sang to his dead son ! 

Alas, he knows it not ; and if he did, what air of hers 
would stir him, rigid man ! Sleep, lonely Florence, 
sleep ! Peace in thy dreams, although the night has 
turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and threaten 
to discharge themselves in hail ! 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


115 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A TRIFLE OF MANAGEMENT BY MR. CAREER THE MAN- 
AGER. 

Mr. Career the manager sat at his desk, smooth and 
soft as usual, reading those letters which were reserved 
for him to open, backing them occasionally with such 
memoranda and references as their business purport re- 
quired, and parcelling them out into little heaps for dis~ 
tribution through the several departments of the house. 
The post had come in heavy that morning, and Mr. Car- 
ker the manager had a good deal to do. 

The general action of a man so engaged — pausing to 
look over a bundle of papers in his hand, dealing them 
round in various portions, taking up another bundle and 
examining its contents with knitted brows and pursed- 
out lips — dealing, and sorting, and pondering by turns 
— would easily suggest some whimsical resemblance to 
a player at cards. The face of Mr. Carker the manager 
was in good keeping with such a fancy. It was the face 
of a man who studied his play, warily : who made him- 
self master of all the strong and weak points of the 
game : who registered the cards in his mind as they fell 
about him, knew exactly what was on them, what they 
missed, and what they made : who was crafty to find out 
what the other players held, and who never betrayed his 
own hand. 

The letters were in various languages, but Mr. Carker 


116 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the manager read them all. If there had been anything 
in the offices of Dombey and Son that he could not read, 
there would have been a card wanting in the pack. He 
read almost at a glance, and made combinations of one 
letter with another and one business with another as he 
went on, adding new matter to the heaps — much as a 
man would know the cards at sight, and work out theii 
combinations in his mind after they were turned. Some- 
thing too deep for a partner, and much too deep for an 
adversary, Mr. Carker the manager sat in the rays of 
the sun that came down slanting on him through the sky- 
light, playing his game alone. 

And although it is not among the instincts wild or 
domestic of the cat tribe to play at cards, feline from 
sole to crown was Mr. Carker the manage'r, as he basked 
in the strip of summer-light and warmth that shone upon 
his table and the ground as if they were a crooked dial- 
plate, and himself the only figure on it. With hair and 
whiskers deficient in color at all times, but feebler than 
common in the rich sunshine, and more like the coat of a 
sandy tortoise-shell cat ; with long nails, nicely pared, 
and sharpened ; with a natural antipathy to any speck 
of dirt, which made him pause sometimes and watch the 
falling motes of dust, and rub them off his smooth white 
hand or glossy linen : Mr. Carker the manager, sly of 
manner, sharp of tooth, soft of foot, watchful of eye, 
oily of tongue, cruel of heart, nice of habit, sat with a 
dainty steadfastness and patience at his work, as if he 
were waiting at a mouse’s hole. 

At length the letters were disposed of, excepting one 
which he reserved for a particular audience. Having 
locked the more confidential correspondence in a drawer, 
Mr. Carker the manager rang his bell. 


D0AI15EY AND SON. 


117 


<f Why do you answer it?” was his reception of his 
brother. 

“ The messenger is out, and I am the next,” was the 
submissive reply. 

“ You are the next ? ” muttered the manager. “ Yes ! 
Creditable to me ! There ! ” 

Pointing to the heaps of opened letters, he turned dis- 
dainfully away in his elbow-chair, and broke the seal of 
that one which he held in his hand. 

“ I am sorry to trouble you, James,” said the brother, 
gathering them up, “ but ” — 

“ Oh ! You have something to say. I knew that. 
Well ? ” 

Mr. Carker the manager did not raise his eyes or turn 
them on his brother, but kept them on his letter, though 
without opening it. 

“Well?” he repeated sharply. 

“ I am uneasy about Harriet.” 

“Harriet who? what Harriet? I know nobody of 
that name.” 

“ She is not well, and has changed very much of 
late.” 

“ She changed very much, a great many years ago,” 
replied the manager ; “ and that is all I have to say.” 

“ I think if you would hear me ” — 

“ Why should I hear you, Brother John ? ” returned 
the manager, laying a sarcastic emphasis on those two 
words, and throwing up his head, but not lifting his eyes. 
f ‘ I tell you, Harriet Carker made her choice many years 
ago between her two brothers. She may repent it, but 
she must abide by it.” 

“ Don’t mistake me. I do not say she does repent it. 
[t would be black ingratitude in me to hint at’ such a 


118 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


thing,” returned the other. “ Though believe me, Jamea, 
I am as sorry for her sacrifice as you.” 

“ As I ? ” exclaimed the manager. “ As I ? ” 

“ As sorry for her choice — for what you call her 
choice — as you are angry at it,” said the Junior. 

“ Angry ? ” repeated the other, with a wide show of 
his teeth. 

“ Displeased. Whatever word you like best. You 
know my meaning. There is no offence in my inten- 
tion.” 

“ There is offence in everything you do,” replied his 
brother, glancing at him with a sudden scowl, which in a 
moment gave place to a wider smile than the last. 
“ Carry those papers away, if you please. I am busy.” 

His politeness was so much more cutting than his 
wrath, that the Junior went to the door. But stopping 
at it, and looking round, he said: 

“ When Harriet tried in vain to plead for me with 
you, on your first just indignation, and my first disgrace; 
and when she left you, James, to follow my broken for- 
tunes, and devote herself, in her mistaken affection, to a 
ruined brother, because without her he had no one, and 
was lost ; she was young and pretty. I think if you 
could see her now — if you would go and see her — 
she would move your admiration and compassion.” 

The manager inclined his head, and showed his teeth, 
as who should say, in answer to some careless Small- 
talk, “ Dear me ! Is that the case ? * but said never a 
word. 

“We thought in those days : you and I both : that 
she would marry young, and lead a happy and light- 
hearted life,” pursued the other. “ Oh if you knew how 
cheerfully she cast those hopes away ; how cheerfully 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


119 


she has gone forward on the path she took, and never 
once looked back ; you never could say again that her 
name was strange in your ears. Never! ” 

Again the manager inclined his head, and showed his 
teeth, and seemed to say, “ Remarkable indeed ! You 
quite surprise me ! ” And again he uttered never a word. 

“ May I go on ? ” said John Carker, mildly. 

“On your way?” replied his smiling brother. “If 
you will have the goodness.” 

John Carker, with a sigh, was passing slowly out at 
the door, when his brother’s voice detained him for a 
moment on the threshold. 

“ If she has gone and goes her own way cheerfully,’ 
he said, throwing the still unfolded letter on his desk, 
and putting his hands firmly in his pockets, “ you may 
tell her that I go as cheerfully on mine. If she has 
never once looked back, you may tell her that I have, 
sometimes, to recall her taking part with you, and that 
my resolution is no easier to wear away ; ” he smiled 
very sweetly here ; “ than marble.” 

“ I tell her nothing of you. We never speak about 
you. Once a year, on your birthday, Harriet says al- 
ways, ‘ Let us remember James by name, and wish him 
happy,’ but we say no more.” 

“ Tell it then, if you please,” returned the other, “ to 
yourself. You can’t repeat it too often, as a lesson to 
you to avoid the subject in speaking to me. I know no 
Harriet Carker. There is no such person. You may 
have a sister ; make much of her. I have none.” 

Mr. Carker the manager took up the letter again, and 
waved it with a smile of mock courtesy towards the 
door. Unfolding it as his brother withdrew, and looking 
darkly after him as be left the room, he once more 


120 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


turned round in his elbow-chair, and applied himself to 
a diligent perusal of its contents. 

It was in the writing of his great chief, Mr. Dombey, 
and dated from Leamington. Though he was a quick 
reader of all other letters, Mr. .Carker read this slowly ; 
weighing the words as he went, and bringing every tooth 
in his head to bear upon them. When he had read it 
through once, he turned it over again, and picked out 
these passages. “ I find myself benefited by the change, 
and am not yet inclined to name any time for my return.” 
“ I wish, Carker, you would arrange to come down once 
and see me here, and let me know how things are going 
on, in person.” “ I omitted to speak to you about young 
Gay. If not gone per Son and Heir, or if Son and 
Heir still lying in the Docks, appoint some other young 
man and keep him in the city for the present. I am not 
decided.” “ Now that’s unfortunate ; ” said Mr. Carker 
the manager, expanding his mouth, as if it were made 
of india-rubber : “ for he’s far away ! ” 

Still that passage which was in a postscript, attracted 
his attention and his teeth, once more. 

“ I think,” he said, “ my good friend Captain Cuttle 
mentioned something about being towed along in the 
wake of that day. What a pity he’s so far away ! ” 

He refolded the letter, and was sitting trifling with it 
standing it long-wise and broad-wise on his table, and 
turning it over and over on all sides — doing pretty 
much the same thing perhaps, by its contents — when 
Mr. Perch the messenger knocked softly at the door, 
and coming in on tiptoe, bending his body at every step 
as if it were the delight of his life to bow, laid some 
papers on the table. 

“ Would you please to be engaged, sir ? ” asked Mr. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


121 


Perch, rubbing his hands, and deferential!) putting hia 
head on one side, like a man who felt he had no business 
to hold it up in such a presence, and would keep it as 
much out of the way as possible. 

“ Who wants me ? ” 

“ Why, sir,” said Mr. Perch, in a soft voice, “ really 
nobody, sir, to speak of at present. Mr. Gills the Ship’s 
Instrument-maker, sir, has looked in about a little mat- 
ter of payment, he says ; but I mentioned to him, sir, 
that you was engaged several" deep ; several deep.” 

Mr. Perch coughed once behind his hand, and waited 
for further orders. 

“ Anybody else ? ” 

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Perch, “I wouldn’t of my own 
self take the liberty of mentioning, sir, that there was 
anybody else ; but that same young lad that was here 
yesterday, sir, and last week, has been hanging about the 
place ; and it looks, sir,” added Mr. Perch, stopping to 
shut the door, “ dreadful unbusiness-like to see him 
whistling to the sparrows down the court, and making of 
’em answer him.” 

“ You said he wanted something to do, didn’t you, 
Perch?” asked Mr. Carker, leaning back in his chair, 
and looking at that officer. 

“ Why, sir,” said Mr. Perch, coughing behind his 
hand again, “ his expression certainly were that he was 
in wants of a sitiwation, and that he considered some- 
thing might be done for him about the Docks, being 
used to fishing with a rod and line : but ” — Mr. Perch 
shook his head very dubiously indeed. 

“What does he say when he comes?” asked Mr. Carker. 

“ Indeed, sir,” said Mr. Perch, coughing another 
cough behind his hand, which was always his resource 


122 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


as an expression of humility when nothing else occurred 
to him, “ his observation generally air that he would 
humbly wish to see one of the gentlemen, and that he 
wants to earn a living. But you see, sir,” added Perch, 
dropping his voice to a whisper, and turning, in the in- 
violable nature of his confidence, to give the door a 
thrust with his hand and knee, as if that would shut it 
any more when it was shut already, “ it’s hardly to be 
bore, sir, that a common lad like that should come a 
prowling here, and saying* that his mother nursed our 
House’s young gentleman, and that he hopes our House 
will give him a chance on that account. I am sure, sir,” 
observed Mr. Perch, “ that although Mrs. Perch was at 
that time nursing as thriving a little girl, sir, as we’ve 
ever took the liberty of adding to our family, I wouldn’t 
have made so free as drop a hint of her being capable 
of imparting nourishment, not if it was ever so ! ” 

Mr. Carker grinned at him like a shark, but in an 
absent, thoughtful manner. 

“ Whether,” submitted Mr. Perch, after a short silence 
and another cough, “ it mightn’t be best for me to tell 
him, that if he was seen here any more he would be 
given into custody ; and to keep to it ! With respect to 
bodily fear,” said Mr. Perch, “ I’m so timid, myself, by 
nature, sir, and my nerves is so unstrung by Mrs. Perch’s 
state, that I could take my affidavit easy.” 

“ Let me see this fellow, Perch,” said Mr. Carker. 
* Bring him in ! ” 

“Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mr. 
Perch, hesitating at the door, “ he’s rough, sir, in ap- 
pearance.” 

“ Never mind. If he’s there, bring him in. I’ll see 
Mr. Gills directly. Ask him to wait ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


128 


Mr. Perch bowed ; and shutting the door as precisely 
and carefully as if he were not coming back for a week, 
went on his quest among the sparrows in the court. 
While he was gone, Mr. Carker assumed his favorite at- 
titude before the fire-place, and stood looking at the 
door ; presenting with his under-lip tucked into the 
smile that showed his whole row of upper teeth, a sin- 
gularly crouching appearance. 

The messenger was not long in returning, followed by 
a pair of heavy boots that came bumping along the pas- 
sage like boxes. With the unceremonious words “ Come 
along with you ! ” — a very unusual form of introduction 
from his lips — Mr. Perch then ushered into the pres- 
ence a strong-built lad of fifteen, with a round red face, 
a round sleek head, round black eyes, round limbs, and 
round body, who, to carry out the general rotundity of 
his appearance, had a round hat in his hand, without a 
particle of brim to it. 

Obedient to a nod from Mr. Carker, Perch had no 
sooner confronted the visitor with that gentleman than 
he withdrew. The moment they were face to face alone, 
Mr. Carker, without a word of preparation, took him by 
the throat, and shook him until his head seemed loose 
upon his shoulders. 

The boy, who in the midst of his astonishment could 
not help staring wildly at the gentleman with so many 
white teeth, who was choking him, and at the office-walls, 
as though determined, if he were choked, that his last 
look should be at the mysteries for his intrusion into 
which he was paying such a severe penalty, at last con 
trived to utter — 

* 

“ Come, sir ! You let me alone, will you ! ” 

“ Let you alone ! ” said Mr. Carker. “ What ! I 


124 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


have got you, have I ? ” There was no doubt of that, 
and tightly too. “ You dog,” said Mr. Carker, through 
his set jaws, “ I’ll strangle you ! ” 

Biler whimpered, would he though ? oh, no he would- 
n’t — and what was he doing of — and why didn’t he 
strangle somebody of his own size and not him : but 
Biler was quelled by the extraordinary nature of his 
reception, and, as his head became stationary, and he 
looked the gentleman in the face, or rather in the teeth, 
and saw him snarling at him, he so far forgot his man- 
hood as to cry. 

“ I haven’t done nothing to you, sir,” said Biler, other- 
wise Rob, otherwise Grinder, and always Toodle. 

“ You young scoundrel ! ” replied Mr. Carker, slowly 
releasing him, and moving back a step into his favorite 
position. “ What do you mean by daring to come here ? ” 

“ I didn’t mean no harm, sir,” whimpered Rob, putting 
one hand to his throat, and the knuckles of the other to 
his eyes. “ I’ll never come again, sir. I only wanted 
work.” 

“ Work, young Cain that you are ! ” repeated Mr. 
Carker, eying him narrowly. “ A’n’t you the idlest 
vagabond in London ? ” 

The impeachment, while it much affected Mr. Toodle 
junior, attached to his character so justly, that he could 
not say a word in denial. He stood looking at the gen- 
tleman, therefore, with a frightened, self-convicted, and 
remorseful air. As to his looking at him, it may be 
observed that he was fascinated by Mr. Carker and never 
took his round eyes off him for an instant. 

“ A’n’t you a thief? ” said Mr. Carker, with his hands 
behind him in his pockets. 

“ No, sir,” pleaded Rob. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


125 


“ You are ! " said Mr. Carker. 

“ I a’n’t indeed, sir,” whimpered Rob. “ 1 never did 
such a thing as thieve, sir, if you’ll believe me. I know 
I’ve been going wrong, sir, ever since I took to bird-catch- 
ing and walking-matching. I’m sure a cove might think,” 
said Mr. Toodle junior, with a burst of penitence, “ that 
singing-birds was innocent company, but nobody knows 
what harm is in them little creeturs and what they brings 
you down to.” 

They seemed to have brought him down to a velveteen 
jacket and trousers very much the worse for wear, a 
particularly small red waistcoat like a gorget, an interval 
of blue check, and the hat before-mentioned. 

“ I a’n’t been home twenty times since them birds got 
their will of me,” said Rob, “and that’s ten months. 
How can I go home when everybody’s miserable to see 
me! I wonder,” said Biler, blubbering outright, and 
smearing his eyes with his coat-cuff, u that I haven’t 
been and drownded myself over and over again.” 

All of which, including his expression of surprise at 
not having achieved this last scarce performance, the boy 
said, just as if the teeth of Mr. Carker drew it out of 
him, and he had no power of concealing anything with 
that battery of attraction in full play. 

“ You’re a nice young gentleman ! ” said Mr. Carker, 
shaking his head at him. “ There’s hemp-seed sown for 
you , my fine fellow ! ” 

“ I’m sure, sir,” returned the wretched Biler, blubber- 
ing again, and again having recourse to his coat-cuff : 
“ I shouldn’t care, sometimes, if it was growed too. My 
misfortunes all began in wagging, sir ; but what could I 
do, exceptin’ wag ? ” 

“ Excepting what ? ” said Mr. Carker. 


126 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


u Wag, sir. Wagging from school.” 

“Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?” 
said Mr. Carker. 

“ Yes, sir, that’s wagging, sir,” returned the quondam 
Grinder, much affected. “ I was chivied through the 
streets, sir, when I went there, and pounded when 1 got 
there. So I wagged, and hid myself, and that began it.” 

“ And you mean to tell me,” said Mr. Carker, taking 
him by the throat again, holding him out at arm’s-length, 
and surveying him in silence for some moments, “ that 
you want a place, do you ? ” 

“ I should be thankful to be tried, sir,” returned Too- 
dle junior, faintly. 

Mr. Carker the manager pushed him backwards into 
a corner — the boy submitting quietly, hardly venturing 
to breathe, and never once removing his eyes from his 
face — and rang the bell. 

“ Tell Mr. Gills to come here.” 

Mr. Perch was too deferential to express surprise or 
recognition of the figure in the corner : and Uncle Sol 
appeared immediately. 

“ Mr. Gills ! ” said Carker, with a smile, “ sit down. 
How do you do ? You continue to enjoy your health, 1 
hope?” 

“ Thank you, sir,” returned Uncle Sol, taking out his 
pocket-book, and handing over some notes as he spoke. 
“ Nothing ails me in body but old age. Twenty-five, 
sir.” 

“ You are as punctual and exact, Mr. Gills,” replied 
the smiling manager, taking a paper from one of his 
many drawers, and making an indorsement on it, while 
Uncle Sol looked over him, “ as one of your own chro- 
nometers. Quite right.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


127 


“ The Son and Heir has not been spoken, I find by 
the list, sir,” said Uncle Sol, with a slight addition to the 
usual tremor in his voice. 

“ The Son and Heir has not been spoken,” returned 
Carker. “ There seems to have been tempestuous 
weather, Mr. Gills, and she has probably been driven 
out of her course.” 

“ She is safe, I trust in Heaven ! ” said old Sol. 

“ She is safe, I trust in Heaven ! ” assented Mr. 
Carker in that voiceless manner of his : which made 
l he observant young Toodle tremble again. “Mr. Gills,” 
he added aloud, throwing himself back in his chair, 
“ you must miss your nephew very much R ” 

Uncle Sol, standing by him, shook his head and 
heaved a deep sigh. 

“ Mr. Gills,” said Carker, with his soft hand playing 
round his mouth, and looking up into the instrument- 
maker’s face, “ it would be company to you to have a 
young fellow in your shop just now, and it would be 
obliging me if you would give one house-room for the 
present. No, to be sure,” he added quickly, in antici- 
pation of what the old man was going to say, “ there’s 
not much business doing there, I know ; but you can 
make him clean the place out, polish up the instru- 
ments ; drudge, Mr. Gills. That’s the lad ! ” 

Sol Gills pulled down his spectacles from his forehead 
to his eyes, and looked at Toodle junior standing upright 
in the corner: his head presenting the appearance (whicl 
it always did) of having been newly drawn out of a 
bucket of cold water; his small waistcoat rising and 
falling quickly in the play of his emotions ; and his 
eyes intently fixed on Mr. Carker, without the least 
reference to his proposed master. 


128 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Will you give him house-room, Mr. Gills ? 99 said 
the manager. 

Old Sol, without being quite enthusiastic on the sub* 
ject, replied that he was glad of any opportunity, how- 
ever slight, to oblige Mr. Carker, whose wish on such 
a point was a command : and that the Wooden Mid- 
shipman would consider himself happy to receive in 
liis berth any visitor of Mr. Carker’s selecting. 

Mr. Carker bared himself to the tops and bottoms of 
his gums : making the watchful Toodle junior tremble 
more and more : and acknowledged the instrument- 
maker’s politeness in his most affable manner. 

“ I’ll dispose of him so, then, Mr. Gills,” he answered, 
rising, and shaking the old man by the hand, “ until I 
make up my mind what to do with him, and what he 
deserves. As I consider myself responsible for him, 
Mr. Gills,” here he smiled a wide smile at Rob, who 
shook before it : “ I shall be glad if you’ll look sharply 
after him, and report his behavior to me. I’ll ask a 
question or two of his parents as I ride home this after- 
noon — respectable people — to confirm some particu- 
lars in his own account of himself ; and that done, Mr. 
Gills, I’ll send him round to you to-morrow morning. 
Good-by ! ” 

His smile at parting was so full of teeth, that it con- 
fused old Sol, and made him vaguely uncomfortable. 
He went home, thinking of raging seas, foundering 
ships, drowning men, an ancient bottle of Madeira never 
brought to light, and other dismal matter. 

“Now, boy !” said Mr. Carker, putting his hand on 
young Toodle’s shoulder, and bringing him out into the 
middle of the room. “ You have heard me ? ” 

Rob said, “ Yes, sir.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


129 


“ Perhaps you understand,” pursued his patron, “ that 
if you ever deceive or play tricks with me, you had 
better have drowned yourself, indeed, once for all be- 
fore you came here ? ” 

There was nothing in any branch of mental acqui- 
sition that Rob seemed to understand better than that, 

“ If you have lied to me,” said Mr. Carker, “ in any- 
thing, never come in my way again. If not, you may 
let me find you waiting for me somewhere near your 
mother’s house this afternoon. I shall leave this at five 
o’clock, and ride there on horseback. Now, give me 
the address.” 

Rob repeated it slowly, as Mr. Carker wrote it down. 
Rob even spelt it over a second time, letter by letter, as 
if he thought that the omission of a dot or scratch would 
lead to his destruction. Mr. Carker then handed him 
out of the room : and Rob, keeping his round eyes fixed 
upon his patron to the last, vanished for the time be- 
ing. 

Mr. Carker the manager did a great deal of business 
in the course of the day, and bestowed his teeth upon a 
great many people. In the office, in the court, in the 
street, and on ’Change, they glistened and bristled to a 
terrible extent. Five o’clock arriving, and with it Mr. 
Carker’s bay horse, they got on horseback, and went 
gleaming up Cheapside. 

As no one can easily ride fast, even if inclined to do 
so, through the press and throng of the city at that 
hour, and as Mr. Carker was not inclined, he went 
leisurely along, picking his way among the carts and 
carriages, avoiding whenever he could the wetter and 
more dirty places in the over-watered road, and taking 
infinite pains to keep himself and his steed clean. 

VOL. u. 9 


130 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Glancing at the passers-by while he was thus ambling 
on his way, he suddenly encountered the round eyes 
of the sleek-headed Rob intently fixed upon his face, 
as if they had never been taken ofif, while the boy 
himself, with a pocket-handkerchief twisted up like a 
speckled eel and girded round his waist, made a very 
conspicuous demonstration of being prepared to attend 
upon him, at whatever pace he might think proper to 
go. 

This attention however flattering, being one of an un- 
usual kind, and attracting some notice from the other 
passengers, Mr. Carker took advantage of a clearer 
thoroughfare and a cleaner road, and broke into a trot. 
Rob immediately did the same. Mr. Carker presently 
tried a canter; Rob was still in attendance. Then a 
short gallop ; it was all one to the boy. Whenever Mr. 
Carker turned his eyes to that side of the road, he still 
saw Toodle junior holding his course, apparently without 
distress, and working himself along by the elbows after 
the most approved manner of professional gentlemen 
who get over the ground for wagers. 

Ridiculous as this attendance was, it was a sign of an 
influence established over the boy, and therefore Mr. 
Carker, affecting not to notice it, rode away into the 
neighborhood of Mr. Toodle’s house. On his slackening 
his pace here, Rob appeared before him to point out the 
turnings ; and when he called to a man at a neighboring 
gateway to lioll his horse, pending his visit to the Build- 
ings that had succeeded Staggs’s Gardens, Rob dutifully 
held the stirrup, while the manager dismounted. 

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Carker, taking him by the shoul- 
der, “ come along ! ” 

The prodigal son was evidently nervous of visiting tb* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


181 


parental abode : but Mr. Carker pushing him on before, 
he had nothing for it but to open the right door, and suf- 
fer 'himself to be walked into the midst of his brothers 
and sisters, mustered in overwhelming force round the 
family tea-table. At sight of the prodigal in the grasp 
of a stranger, these tender relations united in a general 
howl, which smote upon the prodigal’s breast so sharply 
when he saw his mother stand up among them, pale and 
trembling with the baby in her arms, that he lent his 
own voice to the chorus. 

Nothing doubting now that the stranger, if not Mr. 
Ketch in person, was one of that company, the whole of 
the young family wailed the louder, while its more in- 
fantine members, unable to control the transports of 
emotion appertaining to their time of life, threw them- 
selves on their backs like young birds when terrified by 
a hawk, and kicked violently. At length, poor Polly 
making herself audible, said, with quivering lips, 46 O 
Rob, my poor boy, what have you done at last ! ” 

44 Nothing, mother,” cried Rob, in a piteous voice, 
44 ask the gentleman ! ” 

44 Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Carker, 44 1 want to do 
him good.” 

At this announcement, Polly, who had not cried yet, 
began to do so. The elder Toodles, who appeared to 
have been meditating a rescue, unclinched their fists. 
The younger Toodles clustered round their mother’s 
gown, and peeped from under their own chubby arms at 
their desperado brother and his unknown friend. Every- 
body blessed the gentleman with the beautiful teeth, who 
wanted to do good. 

44 This fellow,” said Mr. Carker to Polly, giving him a 
gentle shake, 44 is your son, eh, ma’am ?” 


132 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Yes, sir,” sobbed Polly, with a courtesy ; “ yes, sir.” 

“ A bad son, I am afraid ? ” said Mr. Carker. 

“ Never a bad son to me, sir,” returned Polly. 

“ To whom then ? ” demanded Mr. Carker. 

“ He has been a little wild, sir,” replied Polly, check- 
ing the baby, who was making convulsive efforts with his 
arms and legs to launch himself on Biler, through tli3 
ambient air, “and has gone with wrong companions ; but 
I hope he has seen the misery of that, sir, and will do 
well again.” 

Mr. Carker looked at Polly, and the clean room and 
the clean children, and the simple Toodle face, combined 
of father and mother, that was reflected and repeated 
everywhere about him : and seemed to have achieved 
the real purpose of his visit. 

“Your husband, I take it, is not at home?” he said. 

“ No, sir,” replied Polly. “ He's down the line at 
present.” 

The prodigal Rob seemed very much relieved to hear 
it : though still in the absorption of all his faculties in his 
patron, he hardly took his eyes from Mr. Carter’s face 
unless for a moment at a time to steal a sorrowful glance 
at his mother. 

“ Then,” said Mr. Carker, “ I’ll tell you how I have 
stumbled on this boy of yours, and who I am, and what 
I am going to do for him.” 

This Mr. Carker did, in his own way : saying that he 
at first intended to have accumulated nameless terrors on 
his presumptuous head, for coming to the whereabout of 
Dombey and Son. That he had relented, in considera- 
tion of his youth, his professed contrition, and his friends. 
That he was afraid he took a rash step in doing anything 
for the boy, and one that might expose him to the cen- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


133 


/ure of the prudent ; but that he did it of himself and 
for himself, and risked the consequences single-handed ; 
and that his mother’s past connection with Mr. Dombey's 
family had nothing to do with it, and that Mr. Dombey 
had nothing to do with it, but that he, Mr. Carker, was 
the be-all, and the end-all of this business. Taking great 
credit to himself for his goodness, and receiving no less 
from all the family then present, Mr. Carker signified, 
indirectly but still pretty plainly, that Rob’s implicit 
fidelity, attachment, and devotion, ‘were forevermore his 
due, and the least homage he could receive. And with 
this great truth Rob himself was so impressed, that, 
standing gazing on his patron with tears rolling down 
his cheeks, he nodded his shiny head until it seemed 
almost as loose as it had done under the same patron’s 
hands that morning. 

Polly, who had passed Heaven knows how many sleep- 
less nights on account of this her dissipated first-born, 
and had not seen him for weeks and weeks, could have 
almost kneeled to Mr. Carker the manager, as to a good 
spirit — in spite of his teeth. But Mr. Carker rising to 
depart, she only thanked him with her mother’s prayers 
and blessings ; thanks so rich when paid out of the 
heart’s mint, especially for any service Mr. Carker had 
rendered, that he might have given back a large amount 
of change, and yet been overpaid. 

As that gentleman made his way among the crowding 
children to the door, Rob retreated on his mother, and 
took her and the baby in the same repentant hug. 

“ I’ll try hard, dear mother, now. Upon my soul I 
will!” said Rob. 

“ Oh do, my dear boy ! I am sure you will, for our 
sakes and your own ! ” cried Polly, kissing him. “ But 


134 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


you’re coming back to speak to me, when you have seen 
the gentleman away ? ” 

“ I don’t know, mother.” Rob hesitated, and looked 
down. “ Father — when’s he coming home ? ” 

“ Not till two o’clock to-morrow morning.” 

“ I’ll come back, mother dear ! ” cried Rob. And 
passing through the shrill cry of his brothers and sisters 
in reception of this promise, he followed Mr. Carker out. 

u What ! ” said Mr. Carker, who had heard this. 
“ You have a bad father, have you ? ” 

“ No, sir ! ” returned Rob, amazed. “ There a’n’t a 
better nor a kinder father going, than mine is.” 

“ Why don’t you want to see him then ? ” inquired his 
patron. 

“ There’s such a difference between a father and a 
mother, sir,” said Rob, after faltering for a moment. 
“ He couldn’t hardly believe yet that I was going to do 
better — though I know he’d try to — but a mother — 
she always believes what’s good, sir ; at least I know my 
mother does, God bless her ! ” 

Mr. Carker’s mouth expanded, but he said no more 
until he was mounted on his horse, and had dismissed 
the man who held it, when, looking down from the sad- 
dle steadily into the attentive and watchful face of the 
boy, he said : 

“ You’ll come to me to-morrow morning, and you shall 
be shown where that old gentleman lives ; that old gen- 
tleman who was with me this morning ; where you are 
going, as you heard me say.” 

“ Yes, sir,” returned Rob. 

“ I have a great interest in that old gentleman, and in 
serving him, you serve me, boy, do you understand ? 
Well,” he added, interrupting him, for he saw his round 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


135 


face brighten when he was told that : “ I see you do. I 
want to know all about that old gentleman, and how he 
goes on from day to day — for I am anxious to be of 
service to him — and especially who comes there to see 
him. Do you understand ? ” 

Rob nodded his steadfast face, and said “ Yes, sir,” 
again. 

“I should like to know that he has friends who are 
attentive to him, and that they don’t desert him — fcr 
he lives very much alone now, poor fellow ; but that 
they are fond of him, and of his nephew who has gone 
abroad. There is a very young lady who may perhaps 
come to see him. I want particularly to know all about 
her . 99 

“ I’ll take care, sir,” said the boy. 

“ And take care,” returned his patron, bending for- 
ward to advance his grinning face closer to the boy’s, 
and pat him on the shoulder with the handle of his 
whip : “ take care you talk about affairs of mine to no- 
body but me.” 

“ To nobody in the world, sir,” replied Rob, shaking 
his head. 

“ Neither there,” said Mr. Carker, pointing to the 
place they had just left, “ nor anywhere else. I’ll try- 
how true and grateful you can be. I’ll prove you ! ” 
Making this, by his display of teeth and by the action 
of his head, as much a threat as a promise, he turned 
from Rob’s eyes, which w T ere nailed upon him as if he 
had won the boy by a charm, body and soul, and rode 
away. But again becoming conscious, after trotting a 
short distance, that his devoted henchman, girt as be- 
fore, was yielding him the same attendance, to the great 
amusement of sundry spectators, he reined up, and or- 


136 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


dered him off. To insure his obedience, he turned in 
the saddle and watched him as he retired. It was curi- 
ous to see that even then Rob could not keep his eyes 
wholly averted from his patron’s face, but, constantly 
turning and turning again to look after him, involved 
himself in a tempest of buffetings and jostlings from 
the other passengers in the street: of which, in the 
pursuit of the one paramount idea, he was perfectly 
heedless. 

Mr. Carker the manager rode on a foot pace, with 
the easy air of one who had performed all the business 
of the day in a satisfactory manner, and got it com- 
fortably off his mind. Complacent and affable as man 
could be, Mr. Carker picked his way along the streets 
and hummed a soft tune as he went. He seemed to 
purr : he was so glad. 

And in some sort, Mr. Carker, in his fancy, basked 
upon a hearth too. Coiled up snugly at certain feet, 
he was ready for a spring, or for a tear, or for a scratch, 
or for a velvet touch, as the humor took him and occa- 
sion served. Was there any bird in a cage, that came 
in for a share of his regards ? 

“ A very young lady ! ” thought Mr. Carker the man- 
ager, through his song. “ Ay ! when I saw her last, 
she was a little child. With dark eyes and hair, I 
recollect, and a good face ; a very good face ! I dare 
my sht’s pretty.” 

More affable and pleasant yet, and humming his song 
until his many teeth vibrated to it, Mr. Carker picked 
his way along, and turned at last into the shady street 
where Mr. Dombey’s house stood. He had been so 
busy, winding webs round good faces, and obscuring 
them with meshes, that he hardly thought of being 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


137 


at this point of Iris ride, until, glancing down the cold 
perspective of tall houses, he reined in his horse quickly 
within a few yards of the door. But to explain why 
Mr. Carker reined in his horse quickly, and what he 
looked at in no small surprise, a few digressive words 
are necessary. 

Mr. Toots, emancipated from the Blimber thraldom 
and coming into the possession of a certain portion of 
his worldly wealth, “ which,” as he had been wont, during 
his last half-year’s probation, to communicate to Mr. 
Feeder every evening as a new discovery, “ the execu- 
tors couldn’t keep him out of,” had applied himself, with 
great diligence, to the science of Life. Fired with a 
noble emulation to pursue a brilliant and distinguished 
career, Mr. Toots had furnished a choice set of apart- 
ments ; had established among them a sporting bower, 
embellished with the portraits of winning horses, in 
which he took no particle of interest ; and a divan, 
which made him poorly. In this delicious abode, Mr. 
Toots devoted himself to the cultivation of those gentle 
arts which refine and humanize existence, his chief in- 
structor in which was an interesting character called the 
Game Chicken, who was always to be heard of at the 
bar of the Black Badger, wore a shaggy white great- 
coat in the warmest weather, and knocked Mr. Toots 
about the head three times a week, for the small con- 
sideration of ten and six per visit. 

The Game Chicken, who was quite the Apollo of Mr. 
Toots’s Pantheon, had introduced to him a marker who 
taught billiards, a Life Guard who taught fencing, a job- 
master who taught riding, a Cornish gentleman who was 
up to anything in the athletic line, and two or three 
other friends connected no less intimately with the fine 


138 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


arts. Under whose auspices Mr. Toots otmld hardly 
fail to improve apace, and under whose tuition he went 
to work. 

But, however it came about, it came to pass, even 
while these gentlemen had the gloss of novelty upon 
them, that Mr. Toots felt, he didn’t know how, unsettled 
nnd uneasy. There were husks in his corn, that even 
Game Chickens couldn’t peck up ; gloomy giants in his 
leisure, that even Game Chickens couldn’t knock down. 
Nothing seemed to do Mr. Toots so much good as in- 
cessantly leaving cards at Mr. Dombey’s door. No 
tax-gatherer in the British dominions — that wide-spread 
territory on which the sun never sets, and where the 
tax-gatherer never goes to bed — was more regular and 
persevering in his calls than Mr. Toots. 

Mr. Toots never went up-stairs ; and always per- 
formed the same ceremonies, richly dressed for the pur- 
pose, at the hall-door. 

“ Oh ! Good-morning ! ” would be Mr. Toots’s first 
remark to the servant. “ For Mr. Dombey,” would be 
Mr. Toots’s next remark, as he handed in a card. 
“ For Miss Dombey,” would be his next, as he handed 
in another. 

Mr. Toots would then turn round as if to go away; 
but the man knew him by this time, and knew he 
wouldn’t. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” Mr. Toots would say, as 
if a thought had suddenly descended on him. “ Is the 
young woman at home ? ” 

The man would rather think she was, but wouldn’t 
quite know. Then he would ring a bell that rang up- 
stairs, and would look up the staircase, and would say, 
yes she teas at hornej and was coming down. Then 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


139 


Miss Nipper would appear, and the man would re- 
tire. 

“ Oh ! How de do ? ” Mr. Toots would say, with a 
chuckle and a blush. 

Susan would thank him, and say she was very well. 

“ How’s Diogenes going on ? ” would be Mr. Toots’s 
second interrogation. 

Very well indeed. Miss Florence was fonder and 
fonder of him every day. Mr. Toots was sure to hail 
this with a burst of chuckles, like the * opening of a 
bottle of some effervescent beverage. 

“ Miss Florence is quite well, sir,” Susan would add. 

“ Oh, it’s of no consequence, thank’ee,” was the in- 
variable reply of Mr. Toots ; and when he had said so, 
he always went away very fast. 

Now it is certain that Mr. Toots had a filmy some- 
thing in his mind, which led him to conclude that if he 
could aspire successfully in the fulness of time, to the 
hand of Florence, he would be fortunate and blest. It 
is certain that Mr. Toots, by some remote and round- 
about road, had got to that point, and that there he 
made a stand. His heart was wounded ; he was 
touched ; he was in love. He had made a desperate 
attempt, one night, and had sat up all night for the 
purpose, to write an acrostic on Florence, which affected 
him to tears in the conception. But he never proceeded 
m the execution further than the words, “ For when I 
gaze ” — the flow of imagination in which he had pre- 
viously written down the initial letters of the other 
seven lines, deserting him at that point. 

Beyond devising that very artful and politic measure 
of leaving a card for Mr. Dombey daily, the brain of 
Mr. Toots had not worked much in reference to the 


140 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


subject that held his feelings prisoner. But deep con- 
sideration at length assured Mr. Toots that an important 
step to gain, was the conciliation of Miss Susan Nipper, 
preparatory to giving her some inkling of his state of 
mind. 

A little light and playful gallantry towards this lady 
seemed the means to employ in that early chapter of the 
history, for winning her to his interests. Not being able 
quite to make up his mind about it, he consulted the 
Chicken — without taking that gentleman into his con- 
fidence ; merely informing him that a friend in York- 
shire had written to him (Mr. Toots) for his opinion on 
such a question. The Chicken replying that his opinion 
always was, “Go in and win,” and further, “When your 
man’s before you and your work cut out, go in and do 
it,” Mr. Toots considered this a figurative way of sup- 
porting his own view of the case, and heroically resolved 
to kiss Miss Nipper next day. 

Upon the next day, therefore, Mr. Toots, putting into 
requisition some of the greatest marvels that Burgess 
and Co. had ever turned out, went off to Mr. Dombey’s 
upon this design. But his heart failed him so much as 
he approached the scene of action, that, although he 
arrived on the ground at three o’clock in the afternoon, 
it was six before he knocked at the door. 

Everything happened as usual, down to the point 
when Susan said her young mistress was well, and Mr. 
Toots said it was of no consequence. To her amaze- 
ment, Mr. Toots, instead of going off like a rocket, after 
that observation, lingered and chuckled. 

“ Perhaps you’d like to walk up-stairs, sir ? ” said 
Susan. 

“Well I think I will come in!” said Mr. Toots. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Ul 


But instead of walking up-stairs, the bold Toots made 
an awkward plunge at Susan when the door was shut, 
and embracing that fair creature, kissed her on the 
cheek. 

“ Go along with you ! ” cried Susan, “ or I’ll tear your 
eyes out.” 

“ Just another ! ” said Mr. Toots. 

“ Go along with you ! ” exclaimed Susan, giving him 
a push. “ Innocents like you, too ! Who’ll begin next ? 
Go along, sir ! ” 

Susan was not in any serious strait, for she could 
hardly speak for laughing ; but Diogenes, on the stair- 
case, hearing a rustling against the wall, and a shuffling 
of feet, and seeing through the banisters that there was 
some contention going on, and foreign invasion in the 
house, formed a different opinion, dashed down to the 
rescue, and in the twinkling of an eye had Mr. Toots by 
the leg. 

Susan screamed, laughed, opened the street-door, and 
ran down-stairs ; the bold Toots tumbled staggering out 
into the street, with Diogenes holding on to one leg of 
his pantaloons, as if Burgess and Co. were his cooks, 
and had provided that dainty morsel for his holiday en- 
tertainment ; Diogenes shaken off, rolled over and over 
in the dust, got up again, whirled round the giddy Toots 
and snapped at him : and all this turmoil, Mr. Carker, 
reining up his horse and sitting a little at a distance, saw, 
to his amazement, issue from the stately house of Mr. 
Dombey. 

Mr. Carker remained watching the discomfited Toots, 
when Diogenes was called in, and the door shut: and 
while that gentleman, taking refuge in a door-way near 
at hand, bound up the torn leg of his pantaloons with a 


142 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


costly silk handkerchief that had formed jart of his ex- 
pensive outfit for the adventure. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Carker, riding up, 
with his most propitiatory smile. “ I hope you are not 
hurt ? ” 

“ Oh no, thank you,” replied Mr. Toots, raising his 
flushed face, “it’s of no consequence.” Mr. Toots would 
have signified, if he could, that he liked it very much. 

“ If the dog’s teeth have entered the leg, sir ” — be- 
gan Carker, with a display of his own. 

“ No, thank you,” said Mr. Toots, “ it’s all quite right. 
It’s very comfortable, thank you.” 

“ I have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Dombey,” ob- 
served Carker. 

“ Have you though ? ” rejoined the blushing Toots. 

“ And you will allow me, perhaps, to apologize, in his 
absence,” said Mr. Carker, taking off his hat, “ for such 
a misadventure, and to wonder how it can possibly have 
happened.” 

Mr. Toots is so much gratified by this politeness, and 
the lucky chance of making friends with a friend of Mr. 
Dombey, that he pulls out his card-case, which he never 
loses an opportunity of using, and hands his name and 
address to Mr. Carker: who responds to that courtesy 
by giving him his own, and with thaf they part. 

As Mr. Carker picks his way so softly past the house, 
glancing up at the windows, and trying to make out the 
pensive face behind the curtain looking at the children 
opposite, the rough head of Diogenes came clambering 
up close by it, and the dog, regardless of all soothing, 
barkn and growls, and makes at him from that height, 
as if he would spring down and tear him limb from 
limb. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


143 


Well spoken, Di, so near your mistress ! Another, 
and another with your head up, your eyes flashing, and 
your vexed mouth worrying itself, for want of him ! 
Another, as he picks hi3 way along ! You have a good 
scent, Di, — cats, boy, cats 1 


144 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

FLORENCE SOLITARY, AND THE MIDSHIPMAN MYSTERIOUS. 

Florence lived alone in the great dreary house, and 
day succeeded day, and still she lived alone ; and the 
blank walls looked down upon her with a vacant stare, 
as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth 
and beauty into stone. 

No magic dwelling-place in magic story, shut up in 
the heart of a thick wood, was ever more solitary and 
deserted to the fancy, than was her father’s mansion in 
its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the street : al- 
ways by night, when lights were shining from neighbor- 
ing windows, a blot upon its scanty brightness ; always 
by day, a frown upon its never-smiling face. 

There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward 
before the gate of this abode, as in magic legend are 
usually found on duty over the wronged innocence im- 
prisoned ; but besides a glowering visage, with its thin 
lips .parted wickedly, that surveyed all comers from 
above the archway of the door, there was a monstrous 
fantasy of rusty iron curling and twisting like a petri- 
faction of an arbor over the threshold, budding in spikes 
and corkscrew points, and bearing, one on either side, 
two ominous extinguishers, that seemed to say, “ Who 
enter here, leave light behind ! ” There were no talis- 
manic characters engraven on the portal, but the house 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


145 


was now so neglected in appearance, that boys chalked 
the railings and the pavement — particularly round the 
corner where the side wall was — and drew ghosts on 
the stable-door ; and being sometimes driven off by Mr. 
Towlinson, made portraits of him, in return, with his ears 
growing out horizontally from under his hat. Noise 
ceased to be, within the shadow of the roof. The brass 
band that came into the street once a week, in the morn- 
ing, never brayed a note in at those windows ; but all 
such company, down to a poor little piping organ of weak 
intellect, with an imbecile party of automaton dancers, 
waltzing in and out at folding-doors, fell off from it with 
one accord, and shunned it as a hopeless place. 

The spell upon it was more wasting than the spell 
that used to set enchanted houses sleeping once upon a 
time, but left their waking freshness unimpaired. 

The passive desolation of disuse was everywhere 
silently manifest about it. Within doors, curtains, 
drooping heavily, lost their old folds and shapes, and 
hung like cumbrous palls. Hecatombs of furniture, still 
piled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and for- 
gotten men, and changed insensibly. Mirrors were dim 
as with the breath of years. Patterns of carpets faded 
and became perplexed and faint, like the memory of 
those years’ trifling incidents. Boards, starting at un- 
wonted footsteps, creaked and shook. Keys rusted in 
the locks of doors. Damp started on the walls, and as 
the stains came out, the pictures seemed to go in and 
secrete themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk in 
closets. Fungus trees grew in corners of the cellars. 
Dust accumulated, nobody knew whence nor how ; spi- 
ders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day. An 
exploratorj black-beetle now and then was found im- 
VOL. II. 10 


146 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


movable upon the stairs, or in an upper room, as won- 
dering how he got there. Rats began to squeak and 
scuffle in the night-time, through dark galleries they 
mined behind the panelling. 

The dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen im- 
perfectly by the doubtful light admitted through closed 
shutters, would have answered well enough for an en- 
chanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of gilded 
lions, stealthily put out from beneath their wrappers; 
the marble lineaments of busts on pedestals, fearfully 
revealing themselves through veils ; the clocks that 
never told the time, or, if wound up by any chance, 
told it wrong, and struck unearthly numbers, which are 
not upon the dial ; the accidental tin k lings among the 
pendant lustres, more startling than alarm-bells ; the 
softened sounds and laggard air that made their way 
among these objects, and a phantom crowd of others, 
shrouded and hooded, and made spectral of shape. But, 
besides, there was the great staircase, where the lord of 
the place so rarely set his foot, and by which his little 
child had gone up to Heaven. There were other stair- 
cases and passages where no one went for weeks to- 
gether; there were two closed rooms associated with 
dead members of the family, and with whispered recol- 
lections of them ; and to all the house but Florence, 
there was a gentle figure moving through the solitude 
and gloom, that gave to every lifeless thing a touch of 
present human interest and wonder. 

For Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and 
day succeeded day, and still she lived alone, and the 
cold walls looked down upon her with a vacant stare, 
as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth 
and beauty into stone. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


147 


The grass began to grow upon the roof, and in the 
crevices of the basement paving. A scaly crumbling 
vegetation sprouted round the window-sills. Fragments 
of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of the unused 
chimneys, and came dropping down. The two trees with 
the smoky trunks were blighted high up, and the with 
ered branches domineered above the leaves. Through 
the whole building, white had turned yellow, yellow 
nearly black ; and since the time when the poor lady 
died, it had slowly become a dark gap in the long mo- 
notonous street. 

But Florence bloomed there, like the king’s fair 
daughter in the story. Her books, her music, and her 
daily teachers, were her only real companions, Susan 
Nipper and Diogenes excepted: of whom the former, 
in her attendance on the studies of her young mistress, 
began to grow quite learned herself, while the latter, 
softened possibly by the same influences, would lay his 
head upon the window-ledge, and placidly open and shut 
his eyes upon the street, all through a summer morning ; 
sometimes pricking up his head to look with great sig- 
nificance after some noisy dog in a cart, who was bark- 
ing his way along, and sometimes, with an exasperated 
and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy 
in the neighborhood, rushing to the door, whence after 
a deafening disturbance, he would come jogging back 
with a ridiculous complacency that belonged to him, and 
lay his jaw upon the window-ledge again, with the air 
of a dog who had done a public service. 

So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within 
the circle of her innocent pursuits and thoughts, and 
nothing harmed her* She could go flown to her father’s 
rooms now, ard think of him, and suffer her loving heart 


148 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She 
could look upon the objects that had surrounded him 
in his sorrow, and could nestle near his chair, and not 
dread the glance that she so well remembered. She 
could render him such little tokens of her duty and 
service, as putting everything in order for him with her 
own hands, binding little nosegays for his table, chang- 
ing them as one by one they withered and he did not 
come back, preparing something for him every day, and 
leaving some timid mark of her presence near his usual 
seat. To-day it was a little painted stand for his watch ; 
to-morrow she would be afraid to leave it, and would 
substitute some other trifle of her making not so likely 
to attract his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she 
would tremble at the thought of his coming home and 
angrily rejecting it, and would hurry down with slippered 
feet and quickly beating heart, and bring it away. At 
another time, she would only lay her face upon his desk, 
and leave a kiss there, and a tear. 

Still no one knew of this. Unless the household found 
it out when she was not there — and they all held 
Mr. Dombey’s rooms in awe — it was as deep a secret 
in her breast as what had gone before it. Florence 
stole into those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, 
and at times when meals were served down-stairs. And 
although they were in every nook the better and the 
brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as 
quietly as any sunbeam, excepting that she left her light 
behind. 

Shadowy company attended Florence up and down 
the echoing house, and sat with her in the dismantled 
rooms. As if her life were an enchanted vision, there 
arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


149 


it fanciful and unreal. She imagined so often what her 
life would have been if her father could have loved her 
and she had been a favorite child, that sometimes, for the 
moment, she almost believed it was so, and, borne on by 
the current of that pensive fiction, seemed to remember 
how they had watched her brother in his grave together; 
how they had freely shared his heart between them ; how 
they were united in the dear remembrance of him ; how 
they often spoke about him yet ; and her kind father, 
looking at her gently, told her of their common hope and 
trust in God. At other times she pictured to herself her 
mother yet alive. And oh the happiness of falling on 
her neck, and clinging to her with the love and confi- 
dence of all her soul ! And oh the desolation of the 
solitary house again, with evening coming on, and no one 
there ! 

But there was one thought, scarcely shaped out to 
herself, yet fervent and strong within her, that upheld 
Florence when she strove, and filled her true young 
heart, so sorely tried, with constancy of purpose. Into 
her mind, as into all others contending with the great 
affliction of our mortal nature, there had stolen solemn 
wonderings and hopes, arising in the dim world beyond 
the present life, and murmuring, like faint music, of rec- 
ognition in the far-off land between her brother and her 
mother : of some present consciousness in both of her : 
some love and commiseration for her : and some knowl- 
edge of her as she went her way upon the earth. It 
was a soothing consolation to Florence to give shelter 
co these thoughts, until one day — it was soon after she 
had last seen her father in his own room, late at night — 
the fancy came upon her, that, in weeping for his alien- 
ated heart, she might stir the spirits of the dead against 


150 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


him. Wild, weak, childish, as it may have been to think 
so, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the 
impulse of her loving nature ; and from that hour Flor- 
ence strove against the cruel wound in her breast, and 
tried to think of him whose hand had made it only with 
hope. 

Her father did not know — she held to it from that 
time — - how much she loved him. She was very young, 
and had no mother, and had never learned, by some 
fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she loved 
him. She would be patient, and would try to gain that 
art in time, and win him to a better knowledge of his 
only child. 

This became the purpose of her life. The morning 
sun shone down upon the faded house, and found the 
resolution bright and fresh within the bosom of its sol- 
itary mistress. Through all the duties of the day, it 
animated her ; for Florence hoped that the more she 
knew, and the more accomplished she became, the more 
glad he would be when he came to know and like her. 
Sometimes she wondered, with a swelling heart and 
rising tear, whether she was proficient enough in any- 
thing to surprise him when they should become com- 
panions. Sometimes she tried to think if there were 
any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his interest 
more readily than another. Always : at her books, her 
music, and her work : in her morning walks, and in her 
nightly prayers : she had her engrossing aim in view. 
Strange study for a child, to learn the road to a hard 
parent’s heart ! 

There were many careless loungers through the street, 
as the summer evening deepened into night, who glanced 
across the road at the sombre house, and saw the youth- 


DcMBEY AND SON. 


151 


fill figure at the window, such a contrast to it, looking 
upward at the stars as they began to shine, who would 
have slept the worse if they had known on what design 
she mused so steadfastly. The reputation of the man- 
sion as a haunted house, would not have been the gayer 
with some humble dwellers elsewhere, who were struck 
by its external gloom in passing and repassing on their 
daily avocations, and so named it, if they could have 
read its story in the darkening face. But Florence 
held her sacred purpose, unsuspected and unaided : and 
studied only how to bring her father to the understand- 
ing that she loved him, and made no appeal against him 
in any wandering thought. 

Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and 
day succeeded day, and still she lived alone, and the 
monotonous walls looked down upon her with a stare, 
as if they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare her youth 
and beauty into stone. 

Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one 
morning, as she folded and sealed a note she had been 
writing : and showed in her looks an approving knowl- 
edge of its contents. 

“ Better late than never, dear Miss Floy,” said Susan, 
“ and I do say, that even a visit to them old Skettleses 
will be a Godsend.” 

44 It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, 
Susan,” returned Florence, with a mild correction of 
that young lady’s familiar mention of the family in ques- 
tion, “ to repeat their invitation so kindly.” 

Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thorough- 
going partisan on the face of the earth, and who carried 
her partisanship into all matters great or small, and per- 
petually waged war with it against society, screwed up 


152 


DOMBfiY AND SON. 


her lips and shook her head, as a protest against any 
recognition of disinterestedness in the Skettleses, and a 
plea in bar that they would have valuable consideration 
for their kindness in the company of Florence. 

“ They know what they’re about, if ever people did,” 
murmured Miss Nipper, drawing in her breath, “ oh ! 
trust them Skettleses for that ! ” 

“ I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I 
confess,” said Florence thoughtfully ; “ but it will be 
right to go. I think it will be better.” 

“ Much better,” interposed Susan, with another em- 
phatic shake of her head. 

“ And so,” said Florence, “ though I would prefer to 
have gone when there was no one there, instead of in 
this vacation time, when it seems there are some young 
people staying in the house, I have thankfully said yes.” 

“ For which I say, Miss Floy, Oh be joyful i ” re- 
turned Susan. “ Ah ! h—h ! ” 

This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper fre- 
quently wound up a sentence, at about that epoch of 
time, was supposed below the level of the hall to have a 
general reference to Mr. Dombey, and to be expressive 
of a yearning in Miss Nipper to favor that gentleman 
with a piece of her mind. But she never explained it ; 
and it had, in consequence, the charm of mystery, in 
addition to the advantage of the sharpest expression. 

“ How long it is before we have any news of Walter, 
Susan ! ” observed Florence, after a moment’s silence. 

“ Long indeed, Miss Floy ! ” replied her maid. “ And 
Perch said, when he came just now to see for letters — 
but what signifies what he says ! ” exclaimed Susan, 
reddening and breaking off. “ Much he knows about 
it!” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


153 


Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush over- 
spread her face. 

“ If I hadn’t,” said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling 
with some latent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at 
her young mistress, while endeavoring to work herself 
into a state of resentment with the unoffending Mr 
Perch’s image, "if I hadn’t more manliness than that 
insipidest of his sex, I’d never take pride in my hair 
again, but turn it up behind my ears, and wear coarse 
caps* without a bit of border, until death released me 
from my insignificance, I may not be a Amazon, Miss 
Floy, and wouldn’t so demean myself by such disfigure- 
ment, but anyways I’m not a giver up, I hope.” 

“ Give up ! What ? ” cried Florence, with a face of 
terror. 

“ Why, nothing, miss,” said Susan. “ Good gracious, 
nothing ! It’s only that wet curl-paper of a man Perch, 
that any one might almost make away with, with a 
touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all 
parties if some one would take pity on him, and would 
have the goodness ! ” 

“Does he give up the ship, Susan?” inquired Flor- 
ence, very pale. 

“ No, miss,” returned Susan, “ I should like to see 
him make so bold as do it to my face ! No, miss, but he 
goes on about some bothering ginger that Mr. Walter 
was to send te Mrs. Perch, and shakes his dismal head, 
and says he hopes it may be coming ; anyhow, he says, 
it can’t come now in time for the intended occasion, 
but may do for next, which really,” said Miss Nipper, 
with aggravated scorn, “puts me out of patience with 
the man, for though I can bear a great deal, I am 
not a camel, neither am I,” added Susan, after a mo- 


154 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


mentis consideration, “if I know myself, a dromedary 
neither.” 

“ What else does he say, Susan ? ” inquired Florence, 
earnestly. “ Won’t you tell me ? ” 

“ As if I wouldn’t tell you anything, Miss Floy, and 
everything!” said Susan. “Why miss, he says that 
there begins to be a general talk about the ship, and 
that they have never had a ship on that voyage half so 
long unheard of, and that the captain’s wife was at the 
office yesterday, and seemed a little put out about it, but 
any one could say that, we knew nearly that before.” 

“I must visit Walter’s uncle,” said Florence, hur- 
riedly, “ before I leave home. I will go and see him 
this morning. Let us walk there directly, Susan.” 

Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the pro- 
posal, but being perfectly acquiescent, they were soon 
equipped, and in the streets, and on their way towards 
the little Midshipman. 

The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to 
Captain Cuttle’s, on the day when Brogley the broker 
came into possession, and when there seemed to him to 
be an execution in the very steeples, was pretty much 
the same as that in which Florence now took her way 
to Uncle Sol’s ; with this difference, that Florence suf- 
fered the added pain of thinking that she had been, per- 
haps, the innocent occasion of involving Walter in peril, 
and all to whom he was dear, herself included, in an 
agony of suspense. For the rest, uncertainty and dan- 
ger seemed written upon everything. The weathercocks 
on spires and house-tops were mysterious with hints of 
stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers, 
out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks 
were drifting, perhaps, and helpless men were rocked 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


155 


upon them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable 
waters. When Florence came into the city, and passed 
gentlemen who were talking together, she dreaded to 
hear them speaking of the ship, and saying it was lost 
Pictures and prints of vessels fighting with the rolling 
waves filled her with alarm. The smoke and clouds, 
though moving gently, moved too fast for her apprehen- 
sions, and made her fear there was a tempest blowing at 
that moment on the ocean. 

Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected 
similarly, but having her attention much engaged in 
struggles with boys, whenever there was any press of 
people — for, between that grade of human kind and 
herself, there was some natural animosity that invariably 
broke out, whenever they came together — it would 
seem that she had not much leisure on the road for in- 
tellectual operations. 

Arriving in good time abreast of the Wooden Mid- 
shipman on the opposite side of the way, and waiting for 
an opportunity to cross the street, they were a little sur 
prised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker’s door, a 
round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed tow- 
ards the sky, who, as they looked at him, suddenly thrust 
into his capacious mouth two fingers of each hand, and 
with the assistance of that machinery whistled, with 
astonishing shrillness, to some pigeons at a considerable 
elevation in the air. 

“ Mrs. Richards’s eldest, miss ! ” said Susan, “ and the 
worrit of Mrs. Richards’s life ! ” 

As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated 
orospects of her son and heir, Florence was prepared for 
the meeting : so, a favorable moment presenting itself, 
they both hastened across, without any further contem* 


156 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


plation of Mrs Richards’s bane. That sporting charao 
ter, unconscious of their approach, again whistled with 
his utmost might, and then yelled in a rapture of excite- 
ment, “ Strays ! Whoo-oop ! Strays ! ” which identifica- 
tion had such an effect upon the conscience-stricken 
pigeons, that instead of going direct to some town in the 
north of England, as appeared to have been their orig- 
inal intention, they began to wheel and falter; where- 
upon Mrs. Richards’s first-born pierced them with another 
whistle, and again yelled, in a voice that rose above the 
turmoil of the street, “ Strays ! Whoo-oop ! Strays ! ” 

From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to ter- 
restrial objects, by a poke from Miss Nipper, which sent 
him into the shop. 

“ Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs. 
Richards has been fretting for you months and months ! ” 
said Susan, following the poke. “ Where’s Mr. Gills ? ” 

Rob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss 
Nipper when he saw Florence following, put his knuckles 
to his hair, in honor of the latter, and said to the former, 
that Mr. Gills was out. 

“ Fetch him home,” said Miss Nipper, with authority, 
“ and say that my young lady’s here.” 

“ I don’t know where he’s gone,” said Rob. 

“ Is that your penitence ? ” cried Susan, with stinging 
sharpness. 

“Why how can I go and fetch him when I don’t know 
where to go ? ” whimpered the baited Rob. “ How can 
you be so unreasonable ? ” 

“ Did Mr. Gills say when he should be home ? ” asked 
Florence. 

“ Yes, miss,” replied Rob, with another application of 
his knuckles to his hair. “ He said he should be home 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


157 


early in the afternoon ; in about a couple of hours from 
now, miss.” 

44 Is he very anxious about his nephew ? ” inquired 
Susan. 

“ Yes, miss,” returned Rob, preferring to address him- 
self to Florence and slighting Nipper ; “ I should say he 
was, very much so. He a’n’t in-doors, miss, not a quarter 
of an hour together. He can’t settle in one place five 
minutes. He goes about, like a — just like a stray,” 
said Rob, stooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons 
through the window, and checking himself, with his 
fingers half-way to his mouth, on the verge of another 
whistle. 

44 Do you know a friend of Mr. Gills, called Captain 
Cuttle ? ” inquired Florence, after a moment’s reflection. 

44 Him with a hook, miss ? ” rejoined Rob, with an 
illustrative twist of his left hand. 44 Yes,, miss. He was 
here the day before yesterday.” 

44 Has he not been here since ? ” asked Susan. 

44 No, miss,” returned Rob, still addressing his reply to 
Florence. 

44 Perhaps Walter’s uncle has gone there, Susan,” ob- 
served Florence, turning to her. 

44 To Captain Cuttle’s, miss?” interposed Rob, 44 no, 
he’s not gone there, miss. Because he left particular 
word that if Captain Cuttle called, I should tell him how 
surprised he was, not to have seen him yesterday, and 
should make him stop ’till he came back.” 

* Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives ? ” asked 
Florence. 

Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy 
parchment book on the shop-desk, read the address aloud. 

Florence again turned, to her maid and took counsel 


158 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


with her in a low voice, while Rob the round-eyed, 
mindful of his patron’s secret charge, looked on and lis- 
tened. Florence proposed that they should go to Cap- 
tain Cuttle’s house ; hear from his own lips, what he 
thought of the absence of any tidings of the Son and 
Heir ; and bring him, if they could, to comfort Uncle 
Sol. Susan at first objected slightly, on the score of dis- 
tance ; but a hackney-coach being mentioned by her mis- 
tress, withdrew that opposition, and gave in her assent. 
There were some minutes of discussion between them 
before they came to this conclusion, during which the 
staring Rob paid close attention to both speakers, and in- 
clined his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed 
arbitrator of the arguments. 

In fine, Rob was despatched for a coach, the visitors 
keeping shop meanwhile ; and when he brought it, they 
got into it, leaving word for Uncle Sol that they would 
be sure to call again, on their way back. Rob having 
stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the 
pigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk with 
a most assiduous demeanor ; and in order that he might 
forget nothing of what had transpired, made notes of it 
on various small scraps of paper, with a vast expendi- 
ture of ink. There was no danger of these documents 
betraying anything, if accidentally lost ; for long before 
a word was dry, it became as profound a mystery to 
Rob, as if he had had no part whatever in its produc- 
tion. 

While he was yet busy with these labors, the hackney- 
coach, after encountering unheard-of difficulties from 
swivel-bridges, soft roads, impassable canals, caravans of 
casks, settlements of scarlet-beans and little wash-houses, 
and many such obstacles abounding in that country, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


159 


stopped at the corner of Brig Place. Alighting here, 
Florence and Susan Nipper walked down the street, and 
sought out the abode of Captain Cuttle. 

It happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger’s great cleaning days. On these occasions, Mrs. 
MacStinger was knocked up by the policeman at a quar- 
ter before three in the morning, and rarely succumbed 
before twelve o’clock next night. The chief object of 
this institution appeared to be, that Mrs. MacStinger 
should move all the furniture into the back garden at 
early dawn, walk about the house in pattens all day, and 
move the furniture back again after dark. These cere- 
monies greatly fluttered those doves the young Mac- 
Stingers, who were not only unable at such times to find 
any resting-place for the soles of their feet, but generally 
came in for a good deal of pecking from the maternal 
bird during the progress of the solemnities. 

At the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper pre- 
sented themselves at Mrs. MacS finger’s door, that worthy 
but redoubtable female was in the act of conveying 
Alexander MacStinger, aged two years and three months, 
along the passage for forcible deposition in a silting pos- 
ture on the street pavement ; Alexander being black in 
the face with holding his breath after punishment, and a 
cool paving-stone being usually found to act as a power- 
ftil restorative in such cases. 

The feelings of Mrs. MacStinger, as a woman and a 
mother, were outraged by the look of pity for Alexander 
which she observed on Florence’s face. Therefore, Mrs. 
MacStinger asserting those finest emotions of our nature, 
in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook 
and buffeted Alexander both before and during the ap- 
plication of the paving-stone, and took no further notice 
of the «l rangers. 


160 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ I beg jour pardon, ma’am,” said Florence, when the 
child had found his breath again, and was using it. “ Is 
this Captain Cuttle’s house ? ” 

“ No,” said Mrs. MacStinger. 

“ Not Number Nine ? ” asked Florence, hesitating. 

“ Who said it wasn’t Number Nine?” said Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger. 

Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to in- 
quire what Mrs. MacStinger meant by that, and if she 
knew whom she was talking to. 

Mrs. MacStinger in retort, looked at her all over. 
“ What do you want with Captain Cuttle, I should wish 
to know ? ” said Mrs. MacStinger. 

“ Should you ? Then I’m sorry that you vron’t be sat- 
isfied,” returned Miss Nipper. 

“ Hush, Susan ! If you please ! ” said Florence. 
“ Perhaps you can have the goodness to tell us where 
Captain Cuttle lives, ma’am, as he don’t live here.” 

“ Who says he don’t live here ? ” retorted the impla- 
cable MacStinger. “ I said it wasn’t Cap’en Cuttle’s 
house — and it a’n’t his house — and forbid it, that it 
ever should be his house — for Cap’en Cuttle don’t know 
how to keep a house — and don’t deserve to have a 
house — it’s my house — and when I let the upper floor 
to Cap’en Cuttle, oh I do a thankless thing, and cast 
pearls before swine ! ” 

Mrs. MacStinger pitched her voice for the upper win- 
dows in offering these remarks, and cracked off each 
clause sharply by itself as if from a rifle possessing an 
infinity of barrels. After the last shot, the captain’s 
voice was heard to say, in feeble remonstrance from his 
own room, “ Steady below ! ” 

“ Since you want Cap’en Cuttle, there he is ! ” said 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


161 


Mrs. MacStinger, with an angry motion of her hand. 
On Florence making bold to enter, without any more 
parley, and on Susan following, Mrs. MacStinger re- 
commenced her pedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alex- 
ander MacStinger (still on the paving-stone), who had 
stopped in his crying to attend to the conversation, be- 
gan to wail again, entertaining himself during that dis- 
mal performance, which was quite mechanical, with a 
general survey of the prospect, terminating in the hack- 
ney-coach. 

The captain in his own apartment was sitting with his 
hands in his pockets and his legs drawn up under his 
chair, on a very small desolate island, lying about mid- 
way in an ocean of soap and water. The captain’s win- 
dows had been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the 
stove had been cleaned, and everything, the stove ex- 
cepted, was wet, and shining with soft soap and sand : 
the smell of which dry-saltery impregnated the air. In 
the midst of the dreary scene, the captain, cast away 
upon his island, looked round on the waste of waters 
with a rueful countenance, and seemed waiting for some 
friendly bark to come that way, and take him off. 

But when the captain, directing his forlorn visage tow- 
ards the door, saw Florence appear with her maid, no 
words can describe his astonishment. Mrs. MacStinger’s 
eloquence having rendered all other sounds but imper- 
fectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor 
than the potboy or the milkman ; wherefore, when Flor- 
ence appeared, and coming to the confines of the island, 
put her hand in his, the captain stood up, aghast, as if 
he supposed her, for the moment, to be some young mem- 
ber of the Flying EHUchman’s family. 

Instantly recovering his splf-possession, howev?r, the 

VOL. II . IX 


162 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


captain’s first care was to place her on dry land, which 
he happily accomplished, with one motion of his arm. 
Issuing forth, then, upon the main, Captain Cuttle took 
Miss Nipper round the waist, and bore her to the island 
also. Captain Cuttle, then, with great respect and admi- 
ration, raised the hand of Florence to his lips, and stand- 
ing off a little (for the island was not large enough for 
three), beamed on her from the soap and water like a 
new description of Triton. 

“ You are amazed to see us, I am sure,” said Florence, 
with a smile. 

The inexpressibly gratified captain kissed his hook in 
reply, and growled, as if a choice and delicate compli- 
ment were included in the words, “ Stand by ! Stand 
by!” 

“ But I couldn’t rest,” said Florence, “ without coming 
to ask you what you think about dear Walter — who is 
my brother, now — and whether there is anything to 
fear, and whether you will not go and console his poor 
uncle every day, until we have some intelligence of 
him ? ” 

At these words Captain Cuttle, as by an involuntary 
gesture, clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard 
glazed hat was not, and looked discomfited. 

u Have you any fears for Walter’s safety ? ” inquired 
Florence, from whose face the captain (so enraptured he 
was with it) could not take his eyes : while she, in her 
turn, looked earnestly at him, to be assured of the sin- 
cerity of his reply. 

“ No, Heart’s-delight,” said Captain Cuttle, “ I am not 
afeard. Wal’r is a lad as ’ll go through a deal o’ hard 
weather Wal’r is a lad as ’ll bring 'as much success to 
that ’ere brig as a lad is capable on. Wal’r,” said f he 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


163 


captain, his eyes glistening with the praise of his young 
friend, and his hook raised to announce a beautiful quo- 
tation, u is what you may call a out’ard and visible sign 
of a in’ard and spirited grasp, and when found make a 
note of” 

Florence, who did not quite understand this, though 
the captain evidently thought it full of meaning, and 
highly satisfactory, mildly looked to him for something 
more. 

“ I am not afeard, my Heart’s-delight,” resumed the 
captain. “ There’s been most uncommon bad weather 
in them latitudes, there’s no denyin’, and they have 
drove and drove and been beat off, maybe t’other side 
the world. But the ship’s a good ship, and the lad’s a 
good lad ; and it a’n’t easy, thank the Lord,” the cap- 
tain made a little bow, “ to break up hearts of oak, 
whether they’re in brigs or buzzums. Here we have 
’em .both ways, which is bringing it up with a round 
turn, and so I a’n’t a bit afeard as yet.” 

“ As yet ? ” repeated Florence. 

u Not a bit,” returned the captain, kissing his iron 
hand ; “ and afore I begin to be, my Heart’s-delight, 
Wal’r will have wrote home from the island, or from 
some port or another, and made all taut and ship-shape. 
And with regard to old Sol Gills,” here the captain 
became solemn, “ who I’ll stand by, and not desert until 
death do us part, and when the stormy winds do blow, 
do blow, do blow — overhaul the Catechism,” said the 
captain parenthetically, “ and there you’ll find them 
expressions — if it would console Sol Gills to have the 
opinion of a seafaring man as has got a mind equal to 
any undertaking that he puts it alongside of, and as was 
all but smashed in his ’prenticeship, and of which the 


164 


DOM BEY AND SON. 


name is Bunsby, that ’ere man shall give him sucli an 
opinion in his own parlor as’ll stun him. Ah ! ” said 
Captain Cuttle, vauntingly, “ as much as if he’d gone 
and knocked his head again a door ! ” 

“ Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us 
hear what he says,” cried Florence. “ Will you go with 
us now ? We have a coach here.” 

Again the captain clapped his hand to his head, on 
which the hard glazed hat was not, and looked discom- 
fited. But at this instant a most remarkable phenome- 
non occurred. The door opening without any note of 
preparation, and apparently of itself, the hard glazed hat 
in question skimmed into the room like a bird, and 
alighted heavily at the captain’s feet. The door then 
shut as violently as it had opened, and nothing ensued 
in explanation of the prodigy. 

Captain Cuttle picked up his hat, and having turned 
it over with a look of interest and welcome, begarf to 
polish it on his sleeve. While doing so, the captain 
eyed his visitors intently, and said in a low voice : 

“ You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yes- 
terday, and this morning, but she — she took it away 
and kept it. That’s the long and short of the subject.” 

“ Who did, for goodness’ sake ?” asked Susan Nipper. 

“ The lady of the house, my dear,” returned the cap- 
tain, in a gruff whisper, and making signals of secrecy. 
“We had some words about the swabbing of these here 
planks, and she — in short,” said the captain, eying the 
door, and relieving himself with a long breath, “ she 
stopped my liberty.” 

“ Oh ! I wish she had me to deal with ! ” said Susan, 
reddening with the energy of the wish. “ I 5 1 stop her ! ” 

“Would you, do you think, my dear?” rejoined the 


DOMBEY A KID SON. 


165 


Oaptain, shaking his head doubtfully, but regarding the 
desperate courage of the fair aspirant with obvious admi- 
ration. “ I don’t know. It’s difficult navigation. She’s 
very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can 
tell how she’ll head, you see. She’s full one minute, 
and round upon you next. And when she is a tartar,” 
said the captain, with the perspiration breaking out upon 
his forehead — There was nothing but a whistle em- 
phatic enough for the conclusion of the sentence, so the 
captain whistled tremulously. After which he again 
shook his head, and recurring to his admiration of Miss 
Nipper’s devoted bravery, timidly repeated, “Would you, 
do you think, my dear ? ” 

Susan only replied with a bridling smile, but that was 
so very full of defiance, that there is no knowing how 
long Captain Cuttle might have stood entranced in its 
contemplation, if Florence in her anxiety had not again 
proposed their immediately resorting to the oracular 
Bunsby. Thus reminded of his duty, Captain Cuttle 
put on the glazed hat firmly, took up another knobby 
stick, with which he had supplied the place of that one 
given to Walter, and offering his arm to Florence, pre- 
pared to cut his way through the enemy. 

It turned out, however, that Mrs. MacStinger had 
already changed her course, and that she headed, as the 
captain had remarked she often did, in quite a new 
direction. For when they got down-stairs, they found 
that exemplary woman beating the mats on the door- 
steps, with Alexander, still upon the paving-stone, dimly 
looming through a fog of dust ; and so absorbed was 
Mrs. MacStinger in her household occupation, that when 
Captain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she beat the 
harder, and neither by word nor gesture showed any 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


106 

consciousness of their vicinity. The captain was so well 
pleased with this easy escape — although the effect of 
the door-mats on him was like a copious administration 
of snuff, and made him sneeze until the tears ran down 
his face — that he could hardly believe his good for- 
tune ; but more than once, between the door and the 
hackney-coach, looked over his shoulder, with an obvi- 
ous apprehension of Mrs. MacStinger’s giving chase yet 

However, they got to the corner of Brig Place with- 
out any molestation from that terrible fire-ship ; and the 
captain mounting the coach-box — for his gallantry would 
not allow him to ride inside with the ladies, though be- 
sought to do so — piloted the driver’ on his course for 
Captain Bunsby’s vessel, which was called the Cautious 
Clara, and was lying hard by Ratcliffe. 

Arrived at the wharf off which this great command- 
er’s ship was jammed in among some five hundred com- 
panions, whose tangled rigging looked like monstrous 
cobwebs half swept down, Captain Cuttle appeared at 
the coach-window, and invited Florence and Miss Nip- 
per to accompany him on board ; observing that Buns- 
by was to the last degree soft-hearted in respect of 
ladies, and that nothing would so much tend to bring 
his expansive intellect into a state of harmony as their 
presentation to the Cautious Clara. 

Florence readily consented ; and the captain taking 
her little hand in his prodigious palm, led her, with a 
mixed expression of patronage, paternity, pride, and 
ceremony, that was pleasant to see, over several very 
dirty decks, until, coming to the Clara, they found that 
cautious craft (which lay outside the tier) with her gang- 
way removed, and half a dozen feet of river interposed 
between herself and her nearest neighbor. It appeared 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


167 


from Captain Cuttle's explanation, that the great Buns- 
by, like himself, was cruelly treated by his landlady, and 
that when her usage of him for the time being was so 
hard that he could bear it no longer, he set this gulf 
between them as a last resource. 

“ Clara a-hoy ! ” cried the captain, putting a hand to 
each side of his mouth. 

“ A-hoy ! ” cried a boy, like the captain's echo, tum- 
bling up from below. 

“ Bunsby aboard ? ” cried the captain, hailing the boy 
in a stentorian voice, as if he were half a mile off instead 
of two yards. 

“ Ay, ay ! ” cried the boy, in the same tone. 

The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cutth , 
who adjusted it carefully, and led Florence across: re* 
turning presently for Miss Nipper. So they stood upon 
the deck of the Cautious Clara, in whose standing rig- 
ging, divers fluttering articles of dress were curing, in 
company with a few tongues and some mackerel. 

Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above 
the bulkhead of the cabin, another bulkhead — human 
and very large — with one stationary eye in the mahog- 
any face, and one revolving one, on the principal of some 
light-houses. This head was decorated with shaggy hair, 
like oakum, which had no governing inclination towards 
the north, east, west, or south, but inclined to all four 
quarters of the compass, and to every point upon it. 
The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and 
by a shirt-collar and neckerchief, and by a dreadnought 
pilot-coat, and by a pair of dreadnought pilot-trousers, 
whereof the waistband was so very broad and high, that 
it became a succedaneum for a waistcoat : being orna- 
ment ?d n^ar the wearer’s breast-bone with some massive 


168 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


wooden buttons, like backgammon men. As the lowei 
portions of these pantaloons became revealed, Bunsby 
stood confessed ; his hands in their pockets, which were 
of vast size ; and his gaze directed, not to Captain Cut- 
tie or the ladies, but the mast-head. 

The profound appearance of this philosopher, who 
was bulky and strong, and on whose extremely red face 
an expression of taciturnity sat enthroned, not incon- 
sistent with his character, in which that quality was 
proudly conspicuous, almost daunted Captain Cuttle, 
though on familiar terms with him. Whispering to 
Florence that Bunsby had never in his life expressed 
surprise, and was considered not to know what it meant, 
the captain watched him as he eyed his mast-head, and 
afterwards swept the horizon ; and when the revolving 
eye seemed to be coming round in his direction, said : 

“ Bunsby, my lad, how fares it? ” 

A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have 
no connection with Bunsby, and certainly had not the 
least effect upon his face, replied, “A y, ay, shipmet, 
how goes it ! ” At the same time Bunsby’s right hand 
and arm, emerging from a pocket, shook the captain’s, 
and went back again. 

“ Bunsby,” said the captain, striking home at once, 
“here you are ; a man of mind, and a man as can give 
an opinion. Here’s a young lady as wants to take that 
opinion in regard of my friend Wal’r, likewise my 
t’other friend, Sol Gills, which is a character for you 
to come within hail of, being a man of science, which 
is the mother of inwention, and knows no law. Buns- 
by will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with 
us ? ” 

The great commander, who seemed by the expression 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


160 


of his visage to be always on the look-out for something 
in the extremest distance, and to have no ocular knowl- 
edge of anything within ten miles, made no reply what- 
ever. 

“ Here is a man,” said the captain, addressing himself 
to his fair auditors, and indicating the commander with 
his outstretched hook, u that has fell down more than 
any man alive ; that has had more accidents happen to 
his own self than the Seaman’s Hospital to all hands ; 
that took as many spars and bars and bolts about the 
outside of his head when he was young, as you’d want a 
order for on Chatham-yard to build a pleasure-yacht 
with ; and yet that got his opinions in that way, it’s my 
belief, for there a’n’t nothing like ’em afloat or ashore.” 

The stolid commander appeared, by a very slight vi- 
bration in his elbows, to express some satisfaction in this 
encomium ; but if his face had been as distant as his 
gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened the beholders 
less in reference to anything that was passing in his 
thoughts. 

“ Shipmet,” said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping 
down to look out under some interposing spar, “ what’ll 
the ladies drink ? ” 

Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such 
an inquiry in connection with Florence, drew the sage 
aside, and seeming to explain in his ear, accompanied 
him below ; where, that he might not take offence, the 
captain drank a dram himself, which Florence and Susan, 
glancing down the open skylight, saw the sage, with dif- 
ficulty finding room for himself between his berth and a 
very little brass fireplace, serve out for self and friend. 
They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle, tri- 
umphing in the success of his enterprise, conducted 


170 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Florence back to the coach, while Bunsby followed, es- 
corting Miss Nipper, whom he hugged upon the way 
(much to that young lady’s indignation) with his pilot- 
coated arm, like a blue bear. 

The captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much 
in having secured him, and having got that mind into a 
hackney-coach, that he could not refrain from often peep- 
ing in at Florence through the little window behind the 
driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in 
taps upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of 
Bunsby was hard at it. In the mean time, Bunsby, still 
hugging Miss Nipper (for his friend, the captain, had not 
exaggerated the softness of his heart), uniformly pre- 
served his gravity of deportment, and showed no other 
consciousness of her or anything. 

Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the 
door, and ushered them immediately into the little back- 
parlor : strangely altered by the absence of Walter. On 
the table, and about the room, were the charts and maps 
on which the heavy-hearted instrument-maker had again 
and again tracked the missing vessel across the sea, and 
on which, with a pair of compasses that he still had in 
his hand, he had been measuring, a minute before, how 
far she must have driven, to have driven here or there : 
and trying to demonstrate that a long time must elapse 
before hope was exhausted. 

“ Whether she can have run,” said Uncle Sol, looking 
wistfully over the chart ; “ but no, that’s almost impos- 
sible. Or whether she can have been forced by stress 
of weather, — but that’s not reasonably likely. Or 
whether there is any hope she so far changed her course 
as — but even I can hardly hope that ! ” With such 
broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol roamed over the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


171 


great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of 
hopeful probability in it large enough to set one small 
point of the compasses upon. 

Florence saw immediately — it would have been diffi- 
cult to help seeing — that there was a singular indescrib 
able change in the old man, and that while his manner 
was far more restless and unsettled than usual, there was 
yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that perplexed 
her very much. She fancied once that he spoke wildly, 
and at random ; for on her saying she regretted not to 
have seen him when she had been there before that 
morning, he at first replied that he had been to see her, 
and directly afterwards seemed to wish to recall that 
answer. 

“ You have been to see me ? ” said Florence. “ To- 
day?” 

u Yes, my dear young lady,” returned Uncle Sol, look- 
ing at her and away from her in a confused manner 
“ I wished to. see you with my own eyes, and to hear 
you with my own ears, once more before ” — There he 
stopped. 

“ Before when ? Before what ? ” said Florence, put- 
ting her hand upon his arm. 

“ Did I say 6 before ’ ? ” replied old Sol. “ If I did, I 
must have meant before we should have news of my 
dear boy.” 

“ You are not well,” said Florence, tenderly. “ You 
have been so very anxious. I am sure you are not 
well.” 

“ I am as well,” returned the old man, shutting up his 
right hand, and holding it out to show her : “ as well 
and firm as any man at my time of life can hope to be. 
See ! It’s steady. Is its master not as capable of reso- 


172 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


lution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think 
bo. We shall see.” 

There was that in his manner more than in his words, 
though they remained with her too, which impressed 
Florence so much, that she would have confided her un- 
easiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if the captain 
had not seized that moment for expounding the state of 
circumstances on which the opinion of the sagacious 
Bunsby was requested, and entreating that profound au- 
thority to deliver the same. 

Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to some- 
where about the half-way house between London and 
Gravesend, two or three times put out his rough right 
arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration, round the fair 
form of Miss Nipper; but that young female having 
withdrawn herself, in displeasure, to the opposite side of 
the table, the soft heart of the commander of the Cau- 
tious Clara met with no response to its impulses. After 
sundry failures in this wise, the commander, addressing 
himself to nobody, thus spake ; or rather the voice within 
him said of its own accord, and quite independent of him- 
self, as if he were possessed by a gruff spirit ; 

“ My name’s Jack Bunsby ! ” 

“ He was christened John,” cried the delighted Cap- 
tain Cuttle. “ Hear him ! ” 

“ And what I says,” pursued the voice, after some de- 
liberation, “ I stands to.” 

The captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the 
auditory, and seemed to say, “Now he’s coming out, 
This is what I meant when I brought him.” 

“ Whereby,” proceeded the voice, “ why not ? If so, 
what odds? Can any man say otherwise? No. Awasf 
then ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


173 


When it had pursued its train of argument to this 
point, the voice stopped and rested. It then proceeded 
very slowly, thus : 

“ Do I believe that this here Son and Heir’s gone 
down, my lads ? Mayhap. Do I say so ? Which ? 
If a skipper stands out by Sen’ George’s Channel, mak 
ing for the Downs, what’s right ahead of him ? The 
Goodwins. He isn’t forced to run upon the Goodwins, 
but he may. The bearings of this observation lays in 
the application on it. That a’n’t no part of my duty. 
Awast then, keep a bright look-out for’ard, and good luck 
to you ! ” 

The voice here went out of the back-parlor and into 
the street, taking the commander of the Cautious Clara 
with it, and accompanying him on board again with all 
convenient expedition, where he immediately turned in, 
and refreshed his mind with a nap. 

The students of the sage’s precepts, left to their own 
application of his wisdom — upon a principle which was 
the main leg of the Bunsby tripod, as it is perchance of 
some other oracular stools — looked at one another in a 
little uncertainty ; while Rob the Grinder, who had 
taken the innocent freedom of peering in, and listening, 
through the skylight in the roof, came softly down from 
the leads, in a state of very dense confusion. Captain 
Cuttle, however, whose admiration of Bunsby was, if 
possible, enhanced by the splendid manner in which he 
had justified his reputation and come through this 
solemn reference, proceeded to explain that Bunsby 
meant nothing but confidence ; that Bunsby had no 
misgivings ; and that such an opinion as that man had 
given, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope’s own 
anchor, and with good roads to cast it in. Florence en- 


174 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


deavored to believe that the captain was right ; but the 
Nipper, with her arms tight folded, shook her head in 
resolute denial, and had no more trust in Bunsby than in 
Mr. Perch himself. 

The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty 
much where he had found him, for he still went roaming 
about the watery world, compasses in hand, and discov- 
ering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a whis- 
per in his ear from Florence, while the old man was 
absorbed in this pursuit, that Captain Cuttle laid his 
heavy hand upon his shoulder. 

“ What cheer, Sol Gills ? ” cried the captain, heartily. 

“ But so-so, Ned,” returned the Instrument-maker. 
“ I have been remembering, all this afternoon, that on 
the very day when my boy entered Dombey’s house, 
and came home late to dinner, sitting just there where 
you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I 
could hardly turn him from the subject.” 

But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed 
with earnest scrutiny upon his face, the old man stopped 
and smiled. 

“ Stand by, old friend ! ” cried the captain. “ Look 
alive ! I tell you what, Sol Gills ; arter Tve convoyed 
Heart’s-delight safe home,” here the captain kissed his 
hook to Florence, “ T 11 come back and take you in tow 
for the rest of this blessed day. You’ll come and eat 
your dinner along with me, Sol, somewheres or other.” 

“ Not to-day, Ned ! ” said the old man quickly, and 
appearing to be unaccountably startled by the pioposi- 
tion. “ Not to-day. I couldn’t do it ! ” 

“ Why not ? ” returned the captain, gazing at him in 
astonishment. 

“ I — I have so much to do. I — I mean to think of, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


175 


and arrange. I couldn’t do it, Ned, indeed. I must go 
out again, and be alone, and turn my mind to many 
things to-day.” 

The captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and 
looked at Florence, and again at the Instrument-maker. 
“ To-morrow, then,” he suggested at last. 

“Yes, yes. To-morrow,” said the old man. “Think 
of me to-morrow. Say to-morrow.” 

“ I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,” stipulated 
the captain. 

“Yes, yes. The first thing to-morrow morning,” said 
old Sol ; “ and now good-by, Ned Cuttle, and God bless 
you ! ” 

Squeezing both the captain’s hands, with uncommon 
fervor, as he said it, the old man turned to Florence, 
folded hers in his own, and put them to his lip? ; then 
hurried her out to the coach with very singular precipi- 
tation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain 
Cuttle that the captain lingered behind, and instructed 
Rob to be particularly gentle and attentive to his master 
until the morning : which injunction he strengthened 
with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise 
of another sixpence before noon next day. This kind 
office performed, Captain Cuttle, who considered himself 
the natural and lawful body-guard of Florence, mounted 
the box with a mighty sense of his trust, and escorted 
her home. At parting, he assured her that he would 
stand by Sol Gills, close and true ; and once again in- 
quired of Susan Nipper, unable to forget her gallant 
words in reference to Mrs. MacStinger, “ Would you, 
do you think, my dear, though ! ” 

When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the 
captain’s thoughts reverted to the old Instrument-maker, 


176 


DOMBKY AND SON. 


and he felt uncomfortable. Therefore, instead of going 
home, he walked up and down the street several times, 
and, eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a 
certain angular little tavern in the city, with a public 
parlor like a wedge, to which glazed hats much resorted. 
The captain’s principal intention was to pass Sol Gills’s 
after dark, and look in through the window : which he 
did. The parlor-door stood open, and he could see his 
old friend writing busily and steadily at the table within, 
while the little Midshipman, already sheltered from the 
night dews, watched him from the counter ; under which 
Rob the Grinder made his own bed, preparatory to 
shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity that 
reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the 
captain headed for Brig-place, resolving to weigh anchor 
betimes in the morning. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


177 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE STUDY OF A LOVING HEART. 

Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, very good people, 
resided in a pretty villa at Fulham, on the banks of the 
Thames ; which was one of the most desirable residences 
in the world when a rowing-match happened to be going 
past, but had its little inconveniences at other times, 
among which may be enumerated the occasional appear- 
ance of the river in the drawing-room, and the contem- 
poraneous disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery. 

Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal conse- 
quence chiefly through an antique gold snuff-box, and a 
ponderous silk pocket-handkerchief, which he had an im- 
posing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a ban- 
ner, and using with both hands at once. Sir Barnet’s 
object in life was constantly to extend the range of 
his acquaintance. Like a heavy body dropped into 
water — not to disparage so worthy a gentleman by the 
comparison — it was in the nature of things that Sir 
Barnet must spread an ever-widening circle about him, 
until there was no room left. Or, like a sound in air, 
the vibration of which, according to the speculation of 
an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on travelling 
forever through the interminable fields of space, nothing 
but coming to the end of his moral tether could stop Sir 
Barnet Skettles in his voyage of discovery through the 
social system. 

VOL. II. 


12 


178 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Sir Barnet was proud of making people acquainted 
with people. He liked the thing for its own sake, and 
it advanced his favorite object too. For example, if Sir 
Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a raw reciuit, 
or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to his hospi- 
table villa, Sir Barnet would say to him, on the morning 
after his arrival, “Now, my dear sir, is there anybody 
you would like to know ? Who is there you would wish 
to meet ? Do you take any interest in writing people, 
or in painting or sculpturing people, or in acting people, 
or in anything of that sort ? ” Possibly the patient an- 
swered yes, and mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Bar- 
net had no more personal knowledge than of Ptolemy 
the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that nothing on earth 
was easier, as he knew him very well: immediately 
called on the aforesaid somebody, left his card, wrote a 
short note, — “ My dear Sir — penalty of your eminent 
position — friend of my house naturally desirous — Lady 
Skettles and myself participate — trust that genius being 
superior to ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished 
favor of giving us the pleasure,” &c. &c. — and so killed 
a brace of birds with one stone, dead as door-nails. 

With the snuff-box and banner in full force, Sir Bar- 
net Skettles propounded his usual inquiry to Florence 
on the first morning of her visit. When Florence 
thanked him, and said there was no one in particular 
whom she desired to see, it was natural she should think 
with a pang of poor lost Walter. .When Sir Barnet 
Skettles, urging his kind offer, said, “ My dear Miss 
Dombey, are you sure you can remember no one whom 
your good papa — to whom I beg you to present the 
best compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when 
you write • • might wish you to know ? ” it was natural. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


179 


perhaps, that the poor head should droop a little, and 
that her voice should tremble as it softly answered in 
the negative. 

Skettles junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and 
sobered down as to his spirits, was at home for the holi- 
days, and appeared to feel himself aggrieved by the 
solicitude of his excellent mother that he should be at- 
tentive to Florence. Another and a deeper injury under 
which the soul of young Barnet chafed, was the com- 
pany of Dr, and Mrs. Blimber, who had been invited on 
a visit tc the parental roof tree, and of whom the young 
gentleman often said he would have preferred their 
passing the vacation at Jericho. 

“ Is there anybody you can suggest, now, Doctor 
Blimber ? ” said Sir Barnet Skettles, turning to that 
gentleman. 

“ You are very kind, Sir Barnet,” returned Doctor 
Blimber. “ Really I am not aware that there is, in 
particular. I like to know my fellow-men in general, 
Sir Barnet. What does Terence say ? Any one who 
is the parent of a son is interesting to me.” 

“ Has Mrs. Blimber any wish to see any remarkable 
person ? ” asked Sir Barnet courteously. 

Mrs. Blimber replied, with a sweet smile and a shake 
of her sky-blue cap, that if Sir Barnet could have made 
her known to Cicero, she would have troubled him : but 
such an introduction not being feasible, and she already 
epjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady 
and possessing with the Doctor her husband theii joint 
confidence in regard to their dear son — here young 
Barnet was observed to curl his nose — she asked no 
more. 

Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances, to 


180 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


content himself for the time with the company assem- 
bled. Florence was glad of that ; for she had a study 
to pursue among them, and it lay too near her heart, 
and was too precious and momentous, to yield to any 
other interest. 

There were some children staying in the house. 
Children who were as frank and happy with fathers 
and with mothers, as those rosy faces opposite home. 
Children who had no restraint upon their love, and 
freely showed it. Florence sought to learn their secret ; 
sought to find out what it was she had missed ; what 
simple art they knew, and she knew not ; how she could 
be taught by them to show her father that she loved 
him, and to win his love again. 

Many a day did Florence thoughtfully observe these 
children. On many a bright morning did she leave her 
bed when the glorious sun rose, and walking up and 
down upon the river’s bank, before any one in the house 
was stirring, look up at the windows of their rooms, and 
think of them, asleep, so gently tended and affectionately 
thought of. Florence would feel more lonely then, than 
in the great house all alone ; and would think sometimes 
that she was better there than here, and that there was 
greater peace in hiding herself than in mingling with 
others of her age, and finding how unlike them all she 
was. But attentive to her study, though it touched her 
to the quick at every little leaf she turned in the hard 
book, Florence remained among them, and tried, wUh 
patient hope, to gain the knowledge that she wearied for. 

Ah ! how to gain it ! how to know the charm in its 
beginning ! There were daughters here, who rose up 
in the morring, and lay down to rest at night, possessed 
of fathers’ hearts already. They had no repulse to 


DOMBEY ANJ SON. 


181 


overcome, no coldness to dread, no frown to smooth 
away. As the morning advanced, and the windows 
opened one by one, and the dew began to dry upon 
the flowers and grass, and youthful feet began to move 
upon the lawn, Florence glancing round at the bright 
faces, thought what was there she could learn from these 
children ? It was too late to learn from them ; each 
could approach her father fearlessly, and put up her lips 
to meet the ready kiss, and wind her arm about the neck 
that bent down to caress her. She could not begin by 
being so bold. Oh ! could it be that there was less and 
less hope as she studied more and more ! 

She remembered well, that even the old woman who 
had robbed her when a little child — whose image and 
whose house and all she had said and done, were stamp- 
ed upon her recollection, with the enduring sharpness 
of a fearful impression made at that early period of life 
— had spoken fondly of her daughter, and how terribly 
even she had cried out in the pain of hopeless separation 
from her child. But her own mother, she would think 
again, when she recalled this, had loved her well. Then, 
sometimes, when her thoughts reverted swiftly to the 
void between herself and her father, Florence would 
tremble, and the tears would start upon her face, as she 
pictured to herself her mother living on, and coming 
also to dislike her, because of her wanting the unknown 
grace that should conciliate that father naturally, and 
had never done so from her cradle. She knew that this 
imagination did wrong to her mother’s memory, and had 
no truth in it, or base to rest upon ; and yet she tried 
so hard to justify him, and to find the whole blame in 
herself, that she could not resist its passing, like a wild 
cloud, through the distan ce of her mind. 


182 


D.OMBEY AND SON. 


There came among the other visitors, soon after Flor- 
ence, one beautiful girl, three or four years younger 
than she, who was an orphan child, and who was accom- 
panied by her aunt, a gray-haired lady, who spoke much 
to Florence, and who greatly liked (but that they all 
did) to hear her sing of an evening, and would always 
sit near her at that time, with motherly interest. They 
had only been two days in the house, when Florence, 
being in an arbor in the garden one warm morning, 
musingly observant of a youthful group upon the turf, 
through some intervening boughs, and wreathing flow- 
ers for the head of one little creature among them who 
was the pet and plaything of the rest, heard this same 
lady and her niece, in pacing up and down a sheltered 
nook close by, speak of herself. 

“ Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt ? ” said the 
child. 

“No, my love. She has no mother, but her father 
is living.” 

“ Is she in mourning for her poor mama now ? ” in- 
quired the child, quickly. 

“ No ; for her only brother.” 

“ Has she no other brother ? ” 

“ None.” 

“No sister ? ” 

“ None.” 

“ I am very, very sorry ! ” said the little girl. 

As they stopped soon afterwards to watch some boats, 
and had been silent in the mean time, Florence, who had 
risen when she heard her name, and had gathered up 
her flowers to go and meet them, that they might know 
of her being within hearing, resumed her seat and work, 
expecting to hear no more ; but the conversation recom* 
menced next moment. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


183 


•• Florence is a favorite with every one here, and 
deserves to be, I am sure,” said the child, earnestly. 
“ Where is her papa ? ” 

The aunt replied, after a moment’s pause, that she 
did not know. Her tone of voice arrested Florence, 
who had started from her seat again ; and held her 
fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up 
to her bosom, and her two hands saving it from being 
scattered on the ground. 

“ He is in England, I hope, aunt ? ” said the child. 

“ I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.” 

“ Has he ever been here ? ” 

“I believe not. No.” 

“ Is he coming here to see her ? ” 

“ I believe not.” 

“ Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt ? ” asked the child. 

The flowers that Florence held to her breast began 
to fall when she heard those words, so wonderingly 
spoken. She held them closer ; and her face hung 
down upon them. 

“ Kate,” said the lady, after another moment of silence, 
“ I will tell you the whole truth about Florence as I 
have heard it, and believe it to be. Tell no one else, 
my dear, because it may be little known here, and your 
doing so would give her pain.” 

“ I never will ! ” exclaimed the child. 

“I know you never will,” returned the lady. “I can 
trust you as myself. I fear then, Kate, that Florence’s 
father cares little for her, very seldom sees her, never 
was kind to her in her life, and now quite shuns her 
and avoids her. She would love him dearly if he.would 
suffer her, but he will not — though for no fault of hers ; 
and she is greatly to be loved and pitied by all gentle 
hearts.” 


184 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


More of the flowers that Florence held, fell scattering 
on the ground ; those that remained were wet, but not 
with dew ; and her face dropped upon her laden hands. 

44 Poor Florence ! Dear, good Florence ! ” cried the 
child. 

“ Do you know why I have told you this, Kate ? ’ 
said the lady. 

“ That I may be very kind to her, and take great care 
to try to please her. Is that the reason, aunt ? ” 

44 Partly,” said the lady, 44 but not all. Though we 
see her so cheerful ; with a pleasant smile for every 
one ; ready to oblige us all, and bearing her part in 
every amusement here : she can hardly be quite happy, 
do you think she can, Kate ? ” 

44 1 am afraid not,” said the little girl. 

44 And you can understand,” pursued the lady, 44 why 
her observation of children who have parents who are 
fond of them, and proud of them — like many here, 
just now — should make her sorrowful in.secret?” 

44 Yes, dear aunt,” said the child, 44 1 understand that 
very well. Poor Florence ! ” 

More flowers strayed upon the ground, and those she 
yet held to her breast trembled as if a wintry wind were 
rustling them. 

44 My Kate,” said the lady, whose voice was serious, 
but very calm and sweet, and had so impressed Florence 
from the first moment of her hearing it, 44 Of all the 
youthful people here, you are her natural and harmless 
friend ; you have not the innocent means, that happier 
children have ” — 

44 Xhere are none happier, aunt ! ” exclaimed the child, 
who seemed to cling about her. 

— 44 As ether children have, dear Kate, of reminding 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


185 


her of her misfortune. Therefore I would have you, 
when you try to be her little friend, try all the more 
for that, and feel that the bereavement you sustained — * 
thank Heaven ! before you knew its weight — gives you 
claim and hold upon poor Florence.” 

“ But I am not without a parent’s love, aunt, and 1 
never have been,” said the child, “ with you.” 

“ However, that may be, my dear,” returned the lady. 
“ your misfortune is a lighter one than Florence’s ; for 
not an orphan in the wide world can be so deserted as 
the child who is an outcast from a living parent’s love.’ 

The flowers were scattered on the ground like dust; 
the empty hands were spread upon the face ; and or- 
phaned Florence, shrinking down upon the ground, wept 
long and bitterly. 

But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, 
Florence held to it as her dying mother held by hei 
upon the day that gave Paul life. He did not know 
how much she loved him. However long the time in 
coming, and however slow the interval, she must try to 
bring that knowledge to her father’s heart one day or 
other. Meantime she must be careful in no thoughtless 
word, or look, or burst of feeling awakened by any 
chance circumstance, to complain against him, or to give 
occasion for these whispers to his prejudice. 

Even in the response she made the orphan child, to 
whom she was attracted strongly, and whom she had 
such occasion to remember, Florence was mindful of 
him. If she singled her out too plainly (Florence 
thought) from among the rest, she would confirm — in 
one mind certainly ; perhaps in more — the belief that 
he was cruel and unnatural. Her own delight was no 
set-off to this. What she had overheard was a reason, 


186 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


not for soothing herself, but for saving him ; and Flor- 
ence did it, in pursuance of the study of her heart. 

She did so always. If a book were read aloud, and 
there were anything in the story that pointed at an un- 
kind father, she was in pain for their application of it to 
him ; not for herself. So with any trifle of an interlude 
that was acted, or picture that was shown, or game that 
was played, among them. The occasions for such ten- 
derness towards him were so many, that her mind mis- 
gave her often, it would indeed be better to go back tc 
the old house, and live again within the shadow of its dull 
walls, undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, 
in her spring of womanhood, the modest little queen of 
those small rebels, imagined what a load of sacred care 
lay heavy in her breast! How few of those who stiffened 
in her father’s freezing atmosphere, suspected what a 
heap of fiery coals was piled upon his head ! 

Florence pursued her study patiently, and, failing to 
acquire the secret of the nameless grace she sought, 
among the youthful company who were assembled in the 
house, often walked out alone, in the early morning, 
among the children of the poor. But still she found 
them all too far advanced to learn from. They had won 
their household places long ago, and did not stand with- 
out, as she did, with a bar across the door. 

There was one man whom she several times observed 
at work very early, and often with a girl of about her 
own age seated near him. He was a very poor man, 
who seemed to have no regular employment, but now 
went roaming about the banks of the river when the tide 
was low, looking out for bits and scraps in the mud ; and 
now worked at the unpromising little patch of garden- 
ground before his cottage ; and now tinkered up a 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


187 


miserable old boat that belonged to him ; or did some 
job of that kind for a neighbor, as change occurred. 
Whatever the man’s labor, the girl was never employed ; 
but sat, when she was with him, in a listless, moping 
state, and idle. 

Florence had often wished to speak to this man ; ye\ 
she had never taken courage to do so, as he made no 
movement towards her. But one morning when she 
happened to come upon him suddenly, from a by-path 
among some pollard willows which terminated in the 
little shelving piece of stony ground that lay between his 
dwelling and the water, where he was bending over a 
fire he had made to calk the old boat which was lying 
bottom upwards, close by, he raised his head at the sound 
of her footstep, and gave her Good-morning. 

“ Good-morning,” said Florence, approaching nearer 
“you are at work early.” 

“ I’d be glad to be often at work, earlier, miss, if I had 
work to do.” 

“ Is it so hard to get ? ” asked Florence. 

“/find it so,” replied the man. 

Florence glanced to where the girl was sitting, drawn 
together, with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on 
her hands, and said : 

“ Is that your daughter ? ” 

He raised his head quickly, and looking towards the 
girl with a brightened face, nodded to her and said 
“Yes.” Florence looked towards her too, and gave her 
a kind salutation ; the girl muttered something in return, 
ungraciously and sullenly. 

“ Is she in want of employment also ? ” said Florence. 

The man shook his head. “ No, miss,” he said. “ I 
work for both.” 


188 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Are there only you two, then ? ” inquired Florence 
Only us two,” said the man. “ Her rnothei has been 
dead these ten year. Martha ! ” (He lifted up his head 
again, and whistled to her.) “ Won’t you say a word to 
the pretty young lady ? ” 

The girl made an impatient gesture with her cowering 
shoulders, and turned her head another way. Ugly, 
misshapen, peevish, ill-conditioned, ragged, dirty — but 
beloved ! Oh, yes, Florence had seen her father’s look 
towards her, and she knew whose look it had no like- 
ness to. 

“ I’m afraid she’s worse this morning, my poor girl ! ” 
said the man, suspending his work, and contemplating 
his ill-favored child, with a compassion that was the 
more tender for being rough. 

“ She is ill, then ! ” said Florence. 

The man drew a deep sigh. “ I don’t believe my 
Martha’s had five short days’ good health,” he answered, 
looking at her still, “ in as many long years.” 

“ Ay ! and more than that, John,” said a neighbor, 
who had come down to help him with the boat. 

“ More than that, you say, do you ? ” cried the other, 
pushing back his battered hat, and drawing his hand 
across his forehead. “Very like. It seems a long, 
long time.” 

“And the more the time,” pursued the neighbor, “the 
more you’ve favored and humored her, John, ’till she’s 
got to be a burden to herself, and everybody else.” 

“Not to me,” said her father, falling to his work again, 
“ Not to me.” 

Florence could feel — who better ? — how truly he 
6poke. She drew a little closer to him, and would have 
been glad to touch hi? vugged hand, and thank him for 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


189 


his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon 
with eyes so different from any other man’s. 

u Who would favor my poor girl — to call it favoring 
— if / didn’t ? ” said the father. 

“A y, ay,” cried the neighbor. “In reason, John. 
But you ! You rob yourself to give to her. You bind 
yourself hand and foot on her account. You make your 
life miserable along of her. And what does she care ! 
You don’t believe she knows it ? ” 

The father lifted up his head again, and whistled to 
her. Martha made the same impatient gesture with her 
crouching shoulders, in reply ; and he was glad and 
happy. 

“ Only for that, miss,” said the neighbor with a smile, 
in which there was more of secret sympathy than he ex- 
pressed ; “only to get that, he never lets her out of his 
sight ! ” 

“ Because the day’ll come, and has been coming a long 
while,” observed the other, bending low over his work, 
“ when to get half as much from that unfort’nate child 
of mine — to get the trembling of a finger, or the waving 
of a hair — would be to raise the dead.” 

Florence softly put some money near his hand on the 
old boat, and left him. 

And now Florence began to think, if she were to fall 
ill, if she were to fade like her dear brother, would he 
then know that she had loved him ; would she then 
grow dear to him ; would he come to her bedside, when 
she was weak and dim of sight, and take her into his 
embrace, and cancel all the past ? Would he so forgive 
her, in that changed condition, for not having been able 
to lay open her childish heart to him, as to make it easy 
to relate with what emotions she had gone out of his 


190 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


room that night ; what she had meant to say if she had 
had the courage ; and how she had endeavored, after- 
wards, to learn the way she never knew in infancy ? 

Tes, she thought if she were dying, he would relent. 
She thought, that if she lay, serene and not unwilling to 
depart, upon the bed that was curtained round with 
recollections of their darling boy, he would be touched 
home, and would say, “ Dear Florence, live for me, and 
we will love each other as we might have done, and be 
as happy as we might have been these many years ! ” 
She thought that if she heard such words from him, and 
had her arms clasped round him, she could answer with 
a smile, “ It is too late for anything but this ; I never 
could be happier, dear father ! ” and so leave him, with 
a blessing on her lips. 

The golden water she remembered on the wall, ap- 
peared to Florence, in the light of such reflections, only 
as a current flowing on to rest, and to a region where 
the dear ones, gone before, were waiting, hand in hand ; 
and often when she looked upon the darker river rip- 
pling at her feet, she thought with awful wonder, but 
not terror, of that river which her brother had so often 
said was bearing him away. 

The father and his sick daughter were yet fresh in 
Florence’s mind, and, indeed, that incident was not a 
week old, when Sir Barnet and his lady going out walk- 
ing in the lanes one afternoon, proposed to her to bear 
them company. Florence readily consenting, Lady 
Skettles ordered out young Barnet as a matter of course. 
For nothing delighted Lady Skettles so much, as be- 
holding her eldest son with Florence on his arm. 

Barnet, to say the truth, appeared to entertain an op- 
posite sentiment on the subject, and on such occasions 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


191 


frequently expressed himself audibly, though indefinitely, 
in reference to “ a parcel of girls.” As it was not easy 
to ruffle her sweet temper, however, Florence generally 
reconciled the young gentleman to his fate after a few 
minutes, and they strolled on amicably : Lady Skettles 
and Sir Barnet following, in a state of perfect com- 
placency and high gratification. 

This was the order of procedure on the afternoon in 
question : and Florence had almost succeeded in over- 
ruling the present objections of Skettles junior to his 
destiny, when a gentleman on horseback came riding by, 
looked at them earnestly as he passed, drew in his rein, 
wheeled round, and came riding back again,' hat in 
hand. 

The gentleman had looked particularly at Florence ; 
and when the little party stopped, on his riding back, he 
bowed to her before saluting Sir Barnet and his lady. 
Florence had no remembrance of having ever seen him, 
but she started involuntarily when he came near her, and 
drew back. 

“ My horse is perfectly quiet, I assure you,” said the 
gentleman. , 

It was not that, but something in the gentleman him- 
self — Florence could not have said what — that made 
her recoil as if she had been stung. 

“ I have the honor to address Miss Dombey, I be- 
lieve ? ” said the gentleman, with a most persuasive 
smile. On Florence inclining her head, he added, “ My 
name is Carker. I can hardly hope to be remembered 
by Miss Dombey, except by name. Carker.” 

Florence, sensible of a strange inclination to shiver, 
though the day was hot, presented him to her host and 
hostess ; by whom he was very graciously received. 


192 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ I beg pardon,” said Mr. Carker, “ a thousand times ! 
But I am going down to-morrow morning to Mr. Dom- 
bey, at Leamingion, and if Miss Dombey can intrust 
me with any commission, need I say how very happy 
I shall be?” 

Sir Barnet immediately divining that Florence would 
desire to write a letter to her father, proposed to return, 
and besought Mr. Carker to come home and dine in his 
riding gear. Mr. Carker had the misfortune to be 
engaged for dinner, but if Miss Dombey wished to write, 
nothing would delight him more than to accompany them 
back, and to be her faithful slave in waiting as long as 
she pleased. As he said this with his widest smile, and 
bent down close to her to pat his horse’s neck, Florence, 
meeting his eyes, saw, rather than heard him say, “ There 
is no news of the ship ! ” 

Confused, frightened, shrinking from him, and not 
even sure that he had said those words, for he seemed to 
have shown them to her in some extraordinary manner 
through his smile, instead of uttering them, Florence 
faintly said that she was obliged to him, but she would 
not write ; she had nothing to say. 

“ Nothing to send, Miss Dombey ? ” said the man of 
teeth. 

“ Nothing,” said Florence, “ but my — but my dear 
love — if you please.” 

Disturbed as Florence was, she raised her eyes to his 
face with an imploring and expressive look, that plainly 
besought him, if he knew — which he as plainly did — 
that any message between her and her father was an un- 
common charge, but that one most of all, to spare her. 
Mr. Carker smiled and bowed low, and being charged 
by Sir Barnet, with the best compliments of himself and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


193 , 


Lady Skettles, took his leave, and rode away : leaving a 
favorable impression on that worthy couple. Florence 
was seized with such a shudder as he went, that Sir 
Barnet, adopting the popular superstition, supposed some- 
body was passing over her grave. Mr. Carker, turning 
a corner, on the instant, looked back, and bowed, and dis- 
appeared, as if he rode off to the church-yard, straight, 
to do it. 


194 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

STRANGE NEWS OF UNCLE SOL. 

Captain Cuttle, though no sluggard, did not turn 
so early on the morning after he had seen Sol Gills, 
through the shop-window, writing in the parlor, with the 
Midshipman upon the counter, and Rob the Grinder 
making up his bed below it, but that the clocks struck 
six as he raised himself on his elbow, and took a survey 
of his little chamber. The captain’s eyes must have 
done severe duty, if he usually opened them as wide on 
awaking as he did that morning ; and were but roughly 
rewarded for their vigilance, if he generally rubbed them 
half as hard. But the occasion was no common one, for 
Rob the Grinder had certainly never stood in the door- 
way of Captain Cuttle’s bedroom before, and in it he 
stood then, panting at the captain, with a flushed and 
touzled air of bed about him, that greatly heightened 
both his color and expression. 

“ Holloa ! ” roared the captain. “ What’s the mat- 
ter ? ” 

Before Rob could stammer a word in answer, Captain 
Cuttle turned out, all in a heap, and covered the boy’s 
tnouth with his hand. 

“ Steady my lad,” said the captain, “ don’t ye speak a 
word to me as yet ! ” 

The captain, looking at his visitor in great consterna- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


195 


tion, gently shouldered him into the next rcom, after 
laying this injunction upon him ; and disappearing foi a 
few moments, forthwith returned in the blue suit. Hold- 
ing up his hand in token of the injunction not yet being 
taken off, Captain Cuttle walked up to the cupboard, and 
poured himself out a dram ; a counterpart of which he 
handed to the messenger. The captain then stood him- 
self up in a corner, against the wall, as if to forestall the 
possibility of being knocked backward by the communica- 
tion that was to be made to him ; and having swallowed 
his liquor, with his eyes fixed on the messenger, and his 
face as pale as his face could be, requested him to 
u heave-a-head.” 

“ Do you mean, tell you, captain ? ” asked Rob, who 
had been greatly impressed by these precautions. 

“ Ay ! ” said the captain. 

“ Well, sir,” said Rob, “ I a’n’t got much to tell. But 
look here ! ” 

Rob produced a bundle of keys. The captain sur- 
veyed them, remained in his corner, and surveyed the 
messenger. 

“ And look here ! ” pursued Rob. 

The boy produced a sealed packet, which Captain 
Cuttle stared at as he had stared at the keys. 

“ When I woke this morning, captain,” said Rob, 
u which was about a quarter after five, I found these on 
my pillow. The shop-door was unbolted and unlocked, 
and Mr. Gills gone.” 

“ Gone ! ” roared the captain. 

“ Flowed, sir,” returned Rob. 

The captain’s voice was so tremendous, and he came 
out of his corner with such way on him, that Rob re- 
treated before him into another corner : holding out the 


196 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


keys and packet, to prevent himself from being run 
down. 

“ 4 For Captain Cuttle,’ sir,” cried Rob, “ is on the 
keys, and on the packet too. Upon my word and honor, 
Captain Cuttle, I don’t know anything more about it. I 
wish I may die if I do ! Here’s a sitiwation for a lad 
that’s just got a sitiwation,” cried the unfortunate Grin- 
der, screwing his cuff into his face : “ his master bolted 
with his place, and him blamed for it ! ” 

Tiiese lamentations had reference to Captain Cuttle’s 
gaze, or rather glare, which was full of vague suspicions, 
threatenings, and denunciations. Taking the proffered 
packet from his hand, the captain opened it and read as 
follows : — 

44 4 My dear Ned Cuttle. Enclosed is my will ! ’ ” The 
captain turned it over, with a doubtful look — “ 4 and 
testament.’ — Where’s the testament ? ” said the captain, 
instantly impeaching the ill-fated Grinder. “ What have 
you done with that, my lad ? ” 

44 I never see it,” whimpered Rob. 44 Don’t keep on 
suspecting an innocent lad, captain, / never touched 
the testament.” 

Captain Cuttle shook his head, implying that some- 
body must be made answerable for it; and gravely 
proceeded : — 

44 4 Which don’t break open for a year, or until you 
have decisive intelligence of my dear Walter, who is 
dear to you, Ned, too, I am sure.’ ” The captain paused 
and shook his head in some emotion ; then, as a rees- 
tablishment of his dignity in this trying position, looked 
with exceeding sternness at the Grinder 44 4 If you 
should never hear of me, or see me more, Ned, re- 
member an old friend as he will remember you to the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


197 


last — kindly ; and at ieast until the period I have 
mentioned has expired, keep a home in the old place for 
Walter. There are no debts, the loan from Dombey’s 
house is paid off, and all my keys I send with this. Keep 
this quiet, and make no inquiry for me ; it is useless. 
So no more, dear Ned, from your true friend, Solomon 
Gills.’ ” The captain took a long breath, and then read 
these words, written below : “ 4 The boy Rob, well recom- 
mended, as I told you, from Dombey’s house. If all 
else should come to the hammer, take care, Ned, of the 
little Midshipman.’” 

To convey to posterity any idea of the manner in 
which the captain, after turning this letter over and 
over, and reading it a score of times, sat down in his 
chair, and held a court-martial on the subject in his own 
mind, would require the united genius of all the great 
men, who, discarding their own untoward days, have de- 
termined to go down to posterity, and have never got 
there. At first the captain was too much confounded 
and distressed to think of anything but the letter itself ; 
and even when his thoughts began to glance upon the 
various attendant facts, they might, perhaps, as well 
have occupied themselves with their former theme, for 
any light they reflected on them. In this state of mind, 
Captain Cuttle having the Grinder before the court, and 
no one else, found it a great relief to decide, generally 
‘hat he was an object of suspicion : which the captain 
bo clearly expressed in his visage, that Rob remon 
strated. 

44 Oh, don’t, captain ! ” cried the Grinder. 44 1 wondei 
how you can ! what have I done to be looked at, like 
that ? ” 

44 My lad,” said Captain Cuttle, 44 don’t you sing out 


198 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


afore you’re hurt. And don’t you commit yourself, 
whatever you do.” 

“ I haven’t been and committed nothing, captain,” 
answered Rob. 

“ Keep her free, then,” said the captain, impressively, 
u and ride easy.” 

With a deep sense of the responsibility imposed upon 
him, and the necessity of thoroughly fathoming this 
mysterious affair, as became a man in his relations with 
the parties, Captain Cuttle resolved to go down and ex- 
amine the premises, and to keep the Grinder with him. 
Considering that youth as under arrest at present, the 
captain was in some doubt whether it might not be ex- 
pedient to handcuff him, or tie his ankles together, or 
attach a weight to his legs, but not being clear as to the 
legality of such formalities, the captain decided merely 
to hold him by the shoulder all the way, and knock him 
down if he made any objection. 

However, he made none, and consequently got to the 
Instrument-maker’s house without being placed under 
any more stringent restraint. As the shutters were 
not yet taken down, the captain’s first care was to have 
the shop opened ; and when the daylight was freely ad- 
mitted, he proceeded, with its aid, to further investi- 
gation. 

The captain’s first care was to establish himself in a 
chair in the shop, as president of the solemn tribunal 
that was sitting within him ; and to require Rob to lie 
down in his bed under the counter, show exactly where 
he discovered the keys and packet when he awoke, how 
he found the door when he went to try it, how he started 
off to Brig-place — cautiously preventing the latter imi- 
tation from being carried farther than the threshold — 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


199 


and so on to the end of the chapter. When all this had 
been done several times, the captain shook his head and 
seemed to think the matter had a bad look. 

Next, the captain, with some indistinct idea of finding 
a body, instituted a strict search over the whole house ; 
groping in the cellars with a lighted candle, thrusting 
his hook behind doors, bringing his head into violent 
contact with beams, and covering himself with cob- 
webs. Mounting up to the old man’s bedroom, they 
found that he had not been in bed on the previous night, 
but had merely lain down on the coverlet, as was evi- 
dent from the impression yet remaining there. 

“ And I think, captain,” said Rob, looking round the 
room, “that when Mr. Gills was going in and out so 
often, these last few days, he was taking little things 
away, piecemeal, not to attract attention.” 

“ Ay ! ” said the captain, mysteriously. “ Why so, 
my lad ? ” 

“ Why,” returned Rob, looking about, u I don’t see 
his shaving tackle. Nor his brushes, captain. Nor no 
shirts. Nor yet his shoes.” 

As each of these articles was mentioned, Captain 
Cuttle took particular notice of the corresponding de- 
partment of the Grinder, lest he should appear to have 
been in recent use, or should prove to be in present pos- 
session thereof. But Rob had no occasion to shave, cer- 
tainly was not brushed, and wore the clothes he had worn 
for a long time past, beyond all possibility of mistake. 

“ And what should you say,” said the captain — 
“ not committing yourself — about his time of sheering 
off? Hey?” 

“ Why, I think, captain,” returned Rob, “ that he 
must have gone pretty soon after I began to snore.” 


200 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ What o’clock was that ? ” said the captain, prepared 
to be very particular about the exact time. 

“ How can I tell, captain ! ” answered Rob. “ I only 
know that I’m a heavy sleeper at first, and a light one 
towards morning ; and if Mr. Gills had come through 
the shop near daybreak, though ever so much on tiptoe, 
I’m pretty sure I should have heard him shut the door 
at all events.” 

On mature consideration of this evidence, Captain 
Cuttle began to think that the Instrument-maker must 
have vanished of his own accord ; to which logical con- 
clusion he was assisted by the letter addressed to him- 
self, which, as being unquestionably in the old man’s 
handwriting, would seem, with no great forcing, to bear 
the construction, that he arranged of his own will, to go, 
and so went. The captain had next to consider where 
and why ? and as there was no way whatsoever that he 
saw to the solution of the first difficulty, he confined his 
meditations to the second. 

Remembering the old man’s curious manner, and the 
farewell he had taken of him : unaccountably fervent at 
the time, but quite intelligible now : a terrible appre- 
hension strengthened on the captain, that, overpowered 
by his anxieties and regrets for Walter, he had been 
driven to commit suicide. Unequal to the wear and 
tear of daily life, as he had often professed himself to 
be, and shaken as he no doubt was by the uncertainty 
and deferred hope he had undergone, it seemed no vio- 
lently strained misgiving, but only too probable. 

Free from debt, and with no fear for his personal 
liberty, or the seizure of his goods, what else but such a 
State of madness could have hurried him away alone 
and secretly ? As to his carrying some apparel with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


201 


him, if he had really done so — and they were not even 
sure of that — he might have done so, the captain argued, 
to prevent inquiry, to distract attention from his probable 
fate, or to ease the very mind that was now revolving 
all these possibilities. Such, reduced into plain lan- 
guage, and condensed within a small compass, was the 
final result and substance of Captain Cuttle’s delibera- 
tions ; which took a long time to arrive at this pass, and 
were, like some more public deliberations, very discur- 
sive and disorderly. 

Dejected and despondent in the extreme, Captain 
Cuttle felt it just to release Rob from the arrest in 
which he had placed him, and to enlarge him, subject 
to a kind of honorable inspection which he still resolved 
to exercise ; and having hired a man, from Brogley the 
broker, to sit in the shop during their absence, the cap- 
tain, taking Rob with him, issued forth upon a dismal 
quest after the mortal remains of Solomon Gills. 

Not a station-house or bone-house, or work -house in 
the metropolis escaped a visitation from the hard glazed 
hat. Along the wharves, among the shipping, on the 
bank side, up the river, down the river, here, there, 
everywhere, it went gleaming where men were thickest, 
like the hero’s helmet in an epic battle. For a whole 
week the captain read of all the found and missing peo- 
ple in all the newspapers and handbills, and went forth 
on expeditions at all hours of the day to identify Solo- 
mon Gills, in poor little ship-boys who had fallen over- 
board, and in tall foreigners with dark beards who had 
taken poison — “ to make sure,” Captain Cuttle said, 
'* that it warn’t him.” It is a sure thing that it never 
was, and that the good captain had no other satisfaction. 

Captain Cuttle at last abandoned these attempts as 


202 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


hopeless, and set himself to consider what was to be 
done next. After several new perusals of his poor 
friend’s letter, he considered that the maintenance of 
“ a home in the old place for Walter ” was the primary 
duty imposed upon him. Therefore, the captain’s deci- 
sion was, that he would keep house on the premises of 
Solomon Gills himself, and would go into the instrument 
business, and see what came of it. 

But as this step involved the relinquishment of his 
apartments at Mrs. MacStinger’s, and he knew that 
resolute woman would never hear of hib deserting 
them, the captain took the desperate determination of 
running away. 

“ Now, look ye here, my lad,” said the captain to Rob, 
when he had matured this notable scheme, “ to-morrow, 
I shan’t be found in this here roadstead till night — not 
till arter midnight p’raps. But you keep watch till you 
hear me knock, and the moment you do, turn-to, and 
open the door.” 

“ Very good, captain,” said Rob. 

“ You’ll continue to be rated on these here books,” 
pursued the captain condescendingly, “ and I don’t say 
but what you may get promotion, if you and me should 
pull together with a will. But the moment you hear me 
knock to-morrow night, whatever time it is, turn-to and 
show yourself smart with the door.” 

“ I’ll be sure to do it, captain,” replied Rob. 

“ Because you understand,” resumed the captain, com- 
ing back again to enforce this charge upon his mind, 
w there may be, for anything I can say, a chase ; and I 
might be took while I was waiting, if you didn’t show 
yourself smart with the door.” 

Rob again assured the captain that he would be 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


203 


prompt and wakeful ; and the captain having made this 
prudent arrangement, went home to Mrs. MacStinger’s 
for the last time. 

The sense the captain had of its being the last time, 
and of the awful purpose hidden beneath his blue waist- 
coat, inspired him with such a mortal dread of Mrs. 
MacStinger, that the sound of that lady’s foot down- 
stairs at any time of the day, was sufficient to throw 
him into a fit of trembling. It fell out, too, that Mrs. 
MacStinger was in a charming temper — mild and 
placid as a house-lamb ; and Captain Cuttle’s conscience 
suffered terrible twinges, when she came up to inquire 
if she could cook him nothing for his dinner. 

“ A nice small kidney-pudding now, Cap’en Cuttle,” 
said his landlady : “or a sheep’s heart. Don’t mind 
my trouble.” 

“ No thank’ee, ma’am,” returned the captain. 

“ Have a roast fowl,” said Mrs. MacStinger, “ with 
a bit of weal stuffing and some egg sauce. Come, 
Cap’en Cuttle ! Give yourself a little treat ! ” 

“ No thank’ee, ma’am,” returned the captain very 
humbly. 

“ I’m sure you’re out of sorts, and want to be stimu- 
lated,” said Mrs. MacStinger. “ Why not have, for 
once in a way, a bottle of sherry-wine ? ” 

“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the captain, “if you’d be so 
good as take a glass or two, I think I would try that. 
Would you do me the favor, ma’am,” said the captain, 
torn to pieces by his conscience, “ to accept a quarter’s 
rent ahead ? ” 

“ And why so, Cap’en Cuttle ? ” retorted Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger — sharply as the captain thought. 

The captain was frightened to death. “ If you would, 


204 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ma’am,” he said with submission, “ it would oblige me. 
I can’t keep my money very well. It pays itself out. I 
should take it kind if you’d comply.” 

“ Well, Cap’en Cuttle,” said the unconscious Mac- 
Stinger, rubbing her hands, “ you can do as you please. 
It’s not for me, with my family, to refuse, no more than 
it is to ask.” 

“ And would you, ma’am,” said the captain, taking 
down the tin canister, in which he kept his cash, from 
the top-shelf of the cupboard, “ be so good as offer 
eighteen-pence apiece to the little family all round ? 
If you could make it convenient, ma’am, to pass the 
word presently for them children to come for’ard, in a 
body, I should be glad to see ’em.” 

These innocent MacStingers were so many daggers 
to the captain’s breast, when they appeared in a swarm, 
and tore at him with the confiding trustfulness he so 
little deserved. The eye of Alexander MacStinger, 
who had been his favorite, was insupportable to the 
captain ; the voice of Juliana MacStinger, who was the 
picture of her mother, made a coward of him. 

Captain Cuttle kept up appearances, nevertheless, tol- 
erably well, and for an hour or two was very hardly 
used and roughly handled by the young MacStingers : 
who in their childish frolics, did a little damage also to 
the glazed hat, by sitting in it, two at a time, as in a 
nest, and drumming on the inside of the crown with their 
shoes. At length the captain sorrowfully dismissed 
them : taking leave of these cherubs with the poignant 
remorse and grief of a man who was going to execu- 
tion. 

In the silence of night, the captain packed up his 
heavier property in a chest, which he locked, intending 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


205 


to leave it there, in all probability forever, but on the 
forlorn chance of one day finding a man sufficiently bold 
and desperate to come and ask for it. Of his lighter 
necessaries, the captain made a bundle ; and disposed 
his plate about his person, ready for flight. At the hour 
of midnight, when Brig-place was buried in slumber, 
and Mrs. MacStinger was lulled in sweet oblivion, with 
her infants around her, the guilty captain stealing down 
on tiptoe, in the dark, opened the door, closed it softly 
after him, and took to his heels. 

Pursued by the image of Mrs. MacStinger springing 
out of bed, and, regardless of costume, following and 
bringing him back ; pursued also by a consciousness of 
his enormous crime ; Captain Cuttle held on at a great 
pace, and allowed no grass to grow under his feet, be- 
tween Brig-place and the Instrument-maker’s door. It 
opened when he knocked — for Rob was on the watch 
— and when it was bolted and locked behind him, Cap- 
tain Cuttle felt comparatively safe. 

“ Whew ! ” cried the captain, looking round him. 
“ It’s a breather ! ” 

“ Nothing the matter, is there, captain ? ” cried the 
gaping Rob. 

“ No, no ! ” said Captain Cuttle, after changing color, 
and listening to a passing footstep in the street. “ But 
mind ye, m}^ lad ; if any lady, except either of them 
two as you see t’other day, ever comes and asks for 
Cap’en Cuttle, be sure to report no person of that name 
known, nor never heard of here ; observe them orders, 
will you ? ” 

u I’ll take care, captain,” returned Rob. 

“ You might say • — if you liked,” hesitated the cap- 
tain, “ that you’d read in the paper that a cap’en of 


206 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that name was gone tc Australia, emigrating along wLh 
a whole ship’s complement of people as had all swore 
never to come back no more.” 

Rob nodded his understanding of these instructions ; 
and Captain Cuttle promising to make a man of him if 
he obeyed orders, dismissed him, yawning, to his bed 
under the counter, and went aloft to the chamber of 
Solomon Gills. 

What the captain suffered next day, whenever a bon 
net passed, or how often he darted out of the shop to 
elude imaginary MacStingers, and sought safety in the 
attic, cannot be told. But to avoid the fatigues attend- 
ant on this means of self-preservation, the captain cur 
tained the glass door of communication between the shop 
and parlor, on the inside, fitted a key to it from the 
bunch that had been sent to him ; and cut a small hole 
of espial in the wall. The advantage of this fortifica- 
tion is obvious. On a bonnet appearing, the captain 
instantly slipped into his garrison, locked himself up, 
and took a secret observation of the enemy. Finding 
it a false alarm, the captain instantly slipped out again. 
And the bonnets in the street were so very numerous, 
and alarms were so inseparable from their appearance, 
that the captain was almost incessantly slipping in and 
out all day long. 

Captain Cuttle found time, however, in the midst of 
this fatiguing service to inspect the stock ; in connection 
with which he had the general idea (very laborious to 
Rob) that too much friction could not be bestowed upon 
it, and that it could not be made too bright. He also 
ticketed a few attractive looking articles at a venture, 
At prices ranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds, and 
exposed them in the window to the great astonishment 
of the public. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


207 


After effecting these improvements, Captain Cuttle, 
surrounded by the instruments, began to feel scientific ; 
and looked up at the stars at night, through the skylight, 
when be was smoking his pipe in the little back-parlor 
before going to bed, as if he had established a kind of 
properly in them. As a tradesman in the city, too, he 
began to have an interest in the Lord Mayor, and the 
Sheriffs, and in public companies ; and fell bound to 
read the quotations of the Funds every day, though he 
was unable to make out, on any principle of navigation, 
what the figures meant, and could have very well dis- 
pensed with the fractions. Florence, the captain waited 
on, with his strange news of Uncle Sol, immediately after 
taking possession of the Midshipman ; but she was away 
from home. So the captain sat himself down in his 
altered station of life, with no company but Rob the 
Grinder ; and losing count of time, as men do, when 
great changes come upon them, thought musingly of 
Walter, and of Solomon Gills, and even of Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger herself, as among the things that had been. 


208 


DOMBEY AND SON* 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

SHADOWS OF THE PAST AND FUTURE. 

u Your most obedient, sir,” said the major. “ Damme, 
sir, a friend of my friend Dombey’s is a friend of mine, 
and I’m glad to see you ! ” 

“ I am infinitely obliged, Carker,” explained Mr. Dom- 
bey, u to Major Bagstock for his company and conversa- 
tion. Major Bagstock has rendered me great service, 
Carker.” 

Mr. Carker the Manager, hat in hand, just arrived at 
Leamington, and just introduced to the major, showed 
the major his whole double range of teeth, and trusted 
he might take the liberty of thanking him with all his 
heart for having effected so great an improvement in 
Mr. Dombey’s looks and spirits. 

“ By Gad, sir,” said the major, in reply, “ there are 
no thanks due to me, for it’s a give and take affair. A 
great creature like our friend Dombey, sir,” said the 
major, lowering his voice, but not lowering it so much as 
to render it inaudible to that gentleman, “cannot help 
improving and exalting his friends. He strengthens and 
invigorates a man, sir, does Dombey, in his moral na- 
ture.” 

Mr. Carker snapped at the expression. In his lporal 
nature. Exactly. The very words he had been on the 
point of suggesting. 

“ But when my friend Dombey, sir,” added the major, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


209 


u talks to you of Major Bagstock, I must crave leave to 
set him and you right. He means plain Joe, sir — Joey 
B. — Josh. Bagstock — Joseph — rough and tough Old 
J., sir. At your service.” 

Mr. Carker’s excessively friendly inclinations towards 
the major, and Mr. Carker’s admiration of his roughness, 
toughness, and plainness, gleamed out of every tooth in 
Mr. Carker’s head. 

“ And now, sir,” said the major, “ you and Dombey 
have the devil’s own amount of business to talk over.” 

“ By no means, major,” observed Mr. Dombey. 

“ Dombey,” said the major defiantly, “ I know better ; 
a man of your mark — the Colossus of commerce — is 
not to be interrupted. Your moments are precious. We 
shall meet at dinner-time. In the interval old Joseph 
will be scarce. The dinner-hour is a sharp seven, Mr. 
Carker.” 

With that, the major, greatly swollen as to his face, 
withdrew ; but immediately putting in his head at the 
door again, said: 

“ I beg your pardon. Dombey, have you any mes- 
sage to ’em?” 

Mr. Dombey in some embarrassment, and not without 
a glance at the courteous keeper of his business confi 
dence, intrusted the major with his compliments. 

“ By the Lord, sir,” said the major, “ you must make 
it something warmer than that, or old Joe will be far 
from welcome.” 

* “ Regards then, if you will, major,” returned Mr. 

Dombey. 

“ Damme, sir,” said the major, shaking his shoulders 
and his great cheeks jocularly : “ make it something 
warmer than that.” 


VOL. II. 


14 


210 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ What you please, then, major,” observed Mr Dorn- 
bey. 

<w Our friend is sly sir, sly sir, de-vilish sly,” said the 
major, staring round the door at Carker. “ So is Bag- 
stock.” But stopping in the midst of a chuckle, and 
drawing himself up to his full height, the major sob 
emnly exclaimed, as he struck himself on the chest, 

“ Dombey ! I envy your feelings. God bless you ! ” 
and withdrew. 

“ You must have found the gentleman a great re- 
source,” said Carker, following him with his teeth. 

“ Very great indeed,” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ He has friends here, no doubt,” pursued Carker. 

“ I perceive, from what he has said, that you go into 
society here. Do you know,” smiling horribly, “ I am 
so very glad that you go into society ! ” 

Mr. Dombey acknowledged this display of interest on 
the part of his second in command, by twirling his watch- 
chain, and slightly moving his head. 

“ You were formed for society,” said Carker. “ Of 
all the men I know, you are the best adapted by nature 
and by position, for society. Do you know I have been 
frequently amazed that you should have held it at arm's 
length so long ! ” 

“ I have had my reasons, Carker. I have been alone, 
and indifferent to it. But you have great social qualifi- 
cations yourself, and are the more likely to have been 
surprised.” 

“ Oh ! I! ” returned the other, with ready self-dis- ’ 
paragement. “ It's quite another matter in the case 
of a man like me. I don’t come into comparison with 
you.” 

Mr. Dombey put his hand to his neckcloth, settled his 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


211 


chin in it, coughed, and stood looking at his faithful friend 
and servant for a few moments in silence. 

“ I shall have the pleasure, Carker,” said Mr. Dombey 
at length : making as if he swallowed something a little 
too large for his throat : “ to present you to my — to the 
major’s friends. Highly agreeable people.” 

u Ladies among them, I presume ? ” insinuated the 
smooth Manager. 

“ They are all — that is to say, they are both — 
ladies,” replied Mr. Dombey. 

“ Only two ? ” smiled Carker. 

“ There are only two. I have confined my visits to 
their residence, and have made no other acquaintance 
here.” 

“ Sisters, perhaps ? ” quoth Carker. 

“ Mother and daughter,” replied Mr. Dombey. 

As Mr. Dombey dropped his eyes, and adjusted his 
neckcloth again, the smiling face of Mr. Carker the 
Manager became in a moment, and without any stage of 
transition, transformed into a most intent and frowning 
face, scanning his closely, and with an ugly sneer. As 
Mr. Dombey raised his eyes, it changed back, no less 
quickly, to its old expression, and showed him every 
gum of which it stood possessed. 

“ You are very kind,” said Carker. “ I shall be de- 
lighted to know them. Speaking of daughters, I have 
seen Miss Dombey.” 

There was a sudden rush of blood to Mr. Dombey’s 
face. 

“ I took the liberty of waiting on her,” said Carker, 
“ to inquire if she could charge me with any little com- 
mission. I am not so fortunate as to be the bearer of 
any but her — but her dear love.” 


212 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Wolf’s face that it was then, with even the hot tongue 
revealing itself through the stretched mouth, as the eyes 
encountered Mr. Dombey’s ! 

“ What business intelligence is there ? ” inquired the 
latter gentleman, after a silence, during which Mr. 
Carker had produced some memoranda and other pa- 
pers. 

“ There is very little,” returned Carker. “ Upon the 
whole we have not had our usual good fortune of late, 
but that is of little moment to you. At Lloyd’s they 
give up the Son and Heir for lost. Well, she was in- 
sured from her keel to her masthead.” 

“ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, taking a chair near him, 
“ I cannot say that young man, Gay, ever impressed me 
favorably ” — 

“ Nor me,” interposed the Manager, 

“ But I wish,” said Mr. Dombey, without heeding the 
interruption, “ he had never gone on board that ship. I 
wish he had never been sent out.” 

“ It is a pity you didn’t say so, in good time, is it 
not ? ” retorted Carker, coolly. “ However, I think it’s 
all for the best. I really think it’s all for the best. Did 
I mention that there was something like a little confi- 
dence between Miss Dombey and myself.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Dombey, sternly. 

u I have no doubt,” returned Mr. Carker, after an im- 
pressive pause, “ that wherever Gay is, he is much better 
where he is, than at home here. If I were, or could be, 
in your place, I should be satisfied of that. I am quite 
satisfied of it myself. Miss Dombey is confiding and 
young — perhaps hardly proud enough, for your daugh- 
ter — if she have a fault. Not that that is much though, 
I am sure. Will you check these balances with me ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


213 


Mr. Dombey leaned back in his chair, instead cf bend- 
ing over the papers that were laid before him, and looked 
the Manager steadily in the face. The Manager, with 
his eyelids slightly raised, affected to be glancing at his 
figures, and to await the leisure of his principal. He 
showed that he affected this, as if from great delicacy 
and with a design to spare Mr. Dombey’s feelings ; and 
the latter, as he looked at him, was cognizant of his in- 
tended consideration, and felt that but for it, this confi- 
dential Carker would have said a great deal more, which 
he, Mr. Dombey, was too proud to ask for. It was his 
way in business, often. Little by little, Mr. Dombey s 
gaze relaxed, and his attention became diverted to the 
papers before him ; but while busy with the occupation 
they afforded him, he frequently stopped, and looked at 
Mr. Carker again. Whenever he did so, Mr. Carker 
was demonstrative, as before, in his delicacy, and im- 
pressed it on his great chief more and more. 

While they were thus engaged ; and under the skilful 
culture of the Manager, angry thoughts in reference to 
poor Florence brooded and bred in Mr. Dombey Vbreast, 
usurping the place of the cold dislike that generally 
reigned there ; Major Bagstock, much admired by the 
old ladies of Leamington, and followed by the native, 
carrying the usual amount of light baggage, straddled 
along the shady side of the way, to make a morning-call 
on Mrs. Skewton. It being mid-day when the major 
reached the bower of Cleopatra, he had the good fortune 
to find his princess on her usual sofa, languishing over a 
cup of coffee, with the room so darkened and shaded for 
her more luxurious repose, that Withers, who was in at- 
tendance on her, loomed like a phantom page. 

“ What insupportable creature is this, coming in ! ” 


214 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


said Mrs. Skewton. “ I cannot bear it. Go away, 
whoever you are ! ” 

“You have not the heart to banish J. B., ma’am!” 
said the major, halting midway, to remonstrate, with his 
cane over his shoulder. 

“ Oh it’s you, is it ? On second thoughts you may 
enter,” observed Cleopatra. 

The major entered accordingly, and advancing to the 
sofa pressed her charming hand to his lips. 

“ Sit down,” said Cleopatra, listlessly waving her fan, 
a a long way off. Don’t come too near me, for I am 
frightfully faint and sensitive this morning, and you 
smell of the sun. You are absolutely tropical” 

“ By George, ma’am,” said the major, “ the time has 
been when Joseph Bagstock has been grilled and blis- 
tered by the sun ; the time was, when he was forced, 
ma’am, into such full blow, by high hot-house heat in the 
West Indies, that he was known as the flower. A man 
never heard of Bagstock, ma’am, in those days ; he heard 
of the flower — the flower of Our’s. The flower may 
have faded, more or less, ma’am,” observed the major, 
dropping into a much nearer chair than had been indi- 
cated by his cruel divinity, “but it is a tough plant yet, 
and constant as the evergreen.” 

Here the major, under cover of the dark room, shut 
up one eye, rolled his head like a harlequin, and, in his 
great self-satisfaction, perhaps went nearer to the con* 
fines of apoplexy than he had ever gone before. 

“ Where is Mrs. Granger ? ” inquired Cleopatra of 
her page. 

Withers believed she was in her own room. 

“ Very well,” said Mrs. Skewton. “ Go away, and 
shut the door. I am engaged.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


215 


As Withers disappeared, Mrs. Skewton turned her 
head languidly towards^ the major, without otherwise 
moving, and asked him how his friend was. 

“ Dombey, ma’am,” returned the major, with a face- 
tious gurgling in his throat, “ is as well as a man in his 
condition can be. His condition is a desperate one, 
ma’am. He is touched, is Dombey. Touched ? ” cried 
the major. u He is bayonetted through the body.” 

Cleopatra cast a sharp look at the major, that con- 
trasted forcibly with the affected drawl in which she 
presently said : — 

“ Major Bagstock, although I know but little of the 
world, — nor can I really regret my inexperience, for I 
fear it is a false place : full of withering conventionalities: 
where nature is but little regarded, and where the music 
of the heart, and the gushing of the soul, and all that 
sort of thing, which is so truly poetical, is seldom heard, 
— I cannot misunderstand your meaning. There is an 
allusion to Edith — to my extremely dear child,” said 
Mrs. Skewton, tracing the outline of her eyebrows with 
her forefinger, “ in your words, to which the tenderest of 
chords vibrates excessively ! ” 

“ Bluntness, ma’am,” returned the major, “ has ever 
been the characteristic of the Bagstock breed. You 
are right. Joe admits it.” 

“ And that allusion,” pursued Cleopatra, “ would in- 
volve one of the most — if not positively the most — 
touching, and thrilling, and sacred emotions of which our 
sadly-fallen nature is susceptible, I conceive.” 

The major laid his hand upon his lips, and wafted a 
kiss to Cleopatra, as if to identify the emotion in ques- 
tion. 

“ I feel that I am weak. I feel that I am wanting in 


216 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that energy which should sustain a mama : not to say a 
parent : on such a subject,” said Mrs. Skewton, trimming 
her lips with the laced edge of her pocket-handkerchief; 
“ but I can hardly approach a topic so excessively mo* 
mentous to my dearest Edith without a feeling of faint- 
ness. Nevertheless, bad man, as you have boldly re- 
marked upon it, and as it has occasioned nie great 
anguish : ” Mrs. Skewton touched her left side with her 
fan : “ I will not shrink from my duty.” 

The major, under cover of the dimness, swelled, and 
swelled, and rolled his purple face about, and winked his 
lobster eye, until he fell into a fit of wheezing, which 
obliged him to rise and take a turn or two about the 
room, before his fair friend could proceed. 

“ Mr. Dombey,” said Mrs. Skewton, when she at 
length resumed, “ was obliging enough, now many weeks 
ago, to do us the honor of visiting us here ; in company, 
my dear major, with yourself. I acknowledge — let me 
be open — that it is my failing to be the creature of im- 
pulse, and to wear my heart, as it were, outside. I know 
my failing full well. My enemy cannot know it better. 
But I am not penitent ; I would rather not be frozen by 
the heartless world, and am content to bear this imputa- 
tion justly.” 

Mrs. Skewton arranged her tucker, pinched her wiry 
throat to give it a soft surface, and went on with great 
complacency. 

“It gave me (my dearest Edith too, I am sure) in 
finite pleasure to receive Mr. Dombey. As a friend of 
yours, my dear major, we were naturally disposed to be 
prepossessed in his favor ; and I fancied that I observed 
an amount of heart in Mr. Dombey, that was excessively 
refreshing.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


217 


“ There is devilish little heart in Dombey now, 
ma’am,” said the major. 

“ Wretched man ! ” cried Mrs. Skewton, looking at 
him languidly, “ pray be silent.” 

“J. B. is dumb, ma’am,” said the major. 

“ Mr. Dombey,” pursued Cleopatra, smoothing the 
rosy hue Upon her cheeks, “ accordingly repeated his 
visit ; and possibly finding some attraction in the simpli- 
city and primitiveness of our tastes — for there is always 
a charm in nature — it is so very sweet — became one 
of our little circle every evening. Little did I think of 
the awful responsibility into which I plunged when I 
encouraged Mr. Dombey — to ” — 

“ To beat up these quarters, ma’am,” suggested Major 
Bagstock. 

“ Coarse person ! ” said Mrs. Skewton, “ you antici- 
pate my meaning, though in odious language.” 

Here Mrs. Skewton rested her elbow on the little 
table at her side, and suffering her wrist to droop in 
what she considered a graceful and becoming manner, 
dangled her fan to and fro, and lazily admired her hand 
while speaking. 

“ The agony I have endured,” she said mincingly, “ as 
the truth has by degrees dawned upon me, has been too 
exceedingly terrific to dilate upon. My whole existence 
is bound up in my sweetest Edith ; and to see her 
change from day to day — my beautiful pet, who has 
positively garnered up her heart since the death of that 
most delightful creature, Granger — is the most affecting 
thing in the world.” 

Mrs. Skewton’s world was not a very trying one, if 
one might judge of it by the influence of its most affect- 
ing circumstance upon her ; but this by the way. 


218 


DOMBEi' AND SON. 


“ Edith,” simpered Mrs. Skewton, “ who is the perfect 
pearl of my life, is said to resemble me. I believe we 
are alike.” 

“ There is one man in the world who never will admit 
that any one resembles you, ma’am,” said the major; 
“ and that man’s name is old Joe Bagstock.” 

Cleopatra made as if she would brain the flatterer 
with her fan, but relenting, smiled upon him and pro- 
ceeded : 

“ If my charming girl inherits any advantages from 
me, wicked one ! ” : the major was the wicked one : 
“ she inherits also my foolish nature. She has great 
force of character — mine has been said to be immense, 
though I don’t believe it — but once moved, she is sus- 
ceptible and sensitive to the last extent. What are my 
feelings when I see her pining ! They destroy me.” 

The major advancing his double chin, and pursing up 
his blue lips into a soothing expression, affected the pro- 
foundest sympathy. 

“ The confidence,” said Mrs. Skewton, “^hat has sub- 
sisted between us — the free development of soul, and 
openness of sentiment — is touching to think of. We 
have been more like sisters than mama and child.” 

“ J. B.’s own sentiment,” observed the major,. w ex- 
pressed by J. B. fifty thousand times!” 

“ Do not interrupt, rude man ! ” said Cleopatra. 
“ What are my feelings, then, when I find that there is 
one subject avoided by us ! That there is a what’s his 
name — a gulf — opened between us. That my own 
artless Edith is changed to me ! They are of the most 
poignant description, of course.” 

The major left his chair, and took one nearer to the 
little table. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


219 


“ From day to day I see this, my dear major,” pro- 
ceeded Mrs. Skewton. “ From day to day I feel this. 
From hour to hour I reproach myself for that excess 
of faith and trustfulness which has led to such distressing 
consequences ; and almost from minute to minute, I hope 
that Mr. Dombey may explain himself, and relieve the 
torture I undergo, which is extremely wearing. But 
nothing happens, my dear major ; I am the slave of re- 
morse — take care of the coffee-cup : you are so very 
awkward — my darling Edith is an altered being ; and 
I really don’t see what is to be done, or what good crea- 
ture I can advise with.” 

Major Bagstock, encouraged perhaps by the softened 
and confidential tone into which Mrs. Skewton, after 
several times lapsing into it for a moment, seemed now 
to have subsided for good : stretched out his hand across 
the little table, and said with a leer, 

“ Advise with Joe, ma’am.” 

“ Then, you aggravating monster,” said Cleopatra, 
giving one hand to the major, and tapping his knuck- 
les with her fan, which she held in the other : “ why 

don’t you talk to me ? you know what I mean. Why 

don’t you tell me something to the purpose ? ” 

The major laughed and kissed the hand she had be- 
stowed upon him, and laughed again, immensely. 

Is there as much Heart in Mr. Dombey as I gave 
him credit for ? ” languished Cleopatra tenderly. “ Do 

you think he is in earnest, my dear major? Would 

you recommend his being spoken to, or his being left 
alone ? Now tell me, like a dear man, what you would 
advise.” 

“ Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, ma’am ? * 
chuckled the major, hoarsely. 


220 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


u Mysterious ci eature ? ” returned Cleopatra, bringing 
her fan to bear upon the major’s nose. “ How can we 
marry him ? ” 

“ Shall we marry him to Edith Granger, ma’am, I 
say ? ” chuckled the major again. 

Mrs. Skewton returned no answer in words, but 
smiled upon the major with so much archness and 
vivacity, that that gallant officer considering himself 
challenged, would have imprinted a kiss on her ex- 
ceedingly red lips, but for her interposing the fan with 
a very winning and juvenile dexterity. It might have 
been in modesty ; it might have been in apprehension 
of some danger to their bloom. 

u Dombey, ma’am,” said the major, “ is a great catch.” 
“ Oh, mercenary wretch ! ” cried Cleopatra, with a 
little shriek, “I am shocked.” 

“ And Dombey, ma’am,” pursued the major, thrusting 
forward his head, and distending his eyes, “ is in earnest. 
Joseph says it ; Bagstock knows it ; J. B. keeps him to 
the mark. Leave Dombey to himself, ma’am. Dom- 
bey is safe, ma’am. Do as you have done ; do no more ; 
and trust to J. B. for the end.” 

“ You really think so, my dear major ? ” returned 
Cleopatra, who had eyed him very cautiously, and very 
searchingly, in spite of her listless bearing. 

“ Sure of it, ma’am,” rejoined the major. “ Cleopatra 
the peerless, and her Antony Bagstock, will often speak 
of this, triumphantly, when sharing the elegance and 
wealth of Edith Dombey’s establishment. Dombey’s 
right-hand man, ma’am,” said the major, stopping ab- 
ruptly in a chuckle, and becoming serious, “ has arrived.’* 
u This morning ? ” said Cleopatra. 

“ This morning, ma’am,” returned the major. “ And 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


221 


Dombey 's anxiety for his arrival, ma’am, is to be re- 
ferred — take J. B.’s word for this ; for Joe is de-vilish 
sly ” — the major tapped his nose, and screwed up one 
of his eyes tight : which did not enhance his native 
beauty — “ to his desire that what is in the wind should 
become known to him, without Dombey’s telling and 
consulting him. For Dombey is as proud, ma’am,” said 
the major, “ as Lucifer.” 

“ A charming quality,” lisped Mrs. Skewton ; “ re- 
minding one of dearest Edith.” 

“ Well, ma’am,” said the major. “ I have thrown 
out hints already, and the right-hand man understands 
’em ; and I’ll throw out more before the day is done. 
Dombey projected this morning a ride to Warwick Cas- 
tle, and to Kenilworth, to-morrow, to be preceded by a 
breakfast with us. I undertook the delivery of this 
invitation. Will you honor us so far, ma’am ? ” said 
the major, swelling with shortness of breath and slyness, 
as he produced a note, addressed to the Honorable Mrs. 
Skewton, by favor of Major Bagstock, wherein hers 
ever faithfully, Paul Dombey, besought her and her 
amiable and accomplished daughter to consent to the 
proposed excursion ; and in a postscript unto which the 
same ever faithfully Paul Dombey entreated to be re- 
called to the remembrance of Mrs. Granger. 

“ Hush ! ” said Cleopatra, suddenly, “ Edith ! ” 

The loving mother can scarcely be described as re- 
suming her insipid and affected air when she made this 
exclamation ; for she had never cast it off ; nor was it 
likely that she ever would or could, in any other place 
than in the grave. Bat hurriedly dismissing whatever 
shadow of earnestness, or faint confession of a purpose, 
laudable or wicked, that her face, or voice, or manner, 


222 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


had, for the moment, betrayed, she lounged upon the 
couch, her most insipid and most languid self again, as 
Edith entered the room. 

Edith, so beautiful and stately, but so cold and so 
repelling. Who, slightly acknowledging the presence 
of Major Bagstock, and directing a keen glance at her 
mother, drew back the curtain from a window, and sat 
down there, looking out. 

“ My dearest Edith,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ where on 
earth have you been ? I have wanted you, my love, 
most sadly.” 

“ You said you were engaged, and I stayed away,” 
6he answered, without turning her head. 

“ It was cruel to Old Joe, ma’am,” said the major in 
his gallantry. 

“ It was very cruel, I know,” she said, still looking 
out — and said with such calm disdain that the major 
was discomfited, and could think of nothing in reply. 

“ Major Bagstock, my darling Edith,” drawled her 
mother, “ who is generally the most useless and disagree- 
able creature in the world : as you know ” — 

“ It is surely not worth while, mama,” said Edith, 
looking round, “ to observe these forms of speech. We 
are quite alone. We know each other.” 

The quiet scorn that sat upon her handsome face — 
a scorn that evidently lighted on herself, no less than 
them — was so intense and deep, that her mother’s 
simper, for the instant, though of a hardy constitution, 
drooped before it. 

“ My darling girl,” she began again. 

“ Not woman yet ? ” said Edith, with a smile. 

“ How very odd you are to-day, my dear ! Pray let 
me say, my love, that Major Bagstock has brought the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


223 


kindest of notes from Mr. Dombey, proposing that we 
should breakfast with him to-morrow, and ride to War- 
wick and Kenilworth. Will you go, Edith ? ” 

“ Will I go!” she repeated, turning* very red, and 
breathing quickly as she looked round at her mother. 

“ I knew you would, my own,” observed the latter 
carelessly. “ It is, as you say, quite a form to ask. 
Here is Mr. Dombey’s letter, Edith.” 

“ Thank you. I have no desire to read it,” was her 
answer. 

“ Then perhaps I had better answer it myself,” said 
Mrs. Skewton, u though I had thought of asking you 
to be my secretary, darling.” As Edith made no move- 
ment and no answer, Mrs. Skewton begged the major 
to wheel her little table nearer, and to set open the 
desk it contained, and to take out pen and paper for 
her ; all which congenial offices of gallantry the major 
discharged, with much submission and devotion. 

“ Your regards, Edith, my dear ? ” said Mrs. Skew- 
ton, pausing, pen in hand, at the postscript. 

“ What you will, mama,” she answered, without turn- 
ing her head, and with supreme indifference. 

Mrs. Skewton wrote what she would, without seeking 
for any more explicit directions, and handed her letter 
to the major, who receiving it as a precious charge, 
made a show of laying it near his heart, but was fain 
to put it in the pocket of his pantaloons on account of 
the insecurity of his waistcoat. The major then took 
a very polished and chivalrous farewell of both ladies, 
which the elder one acknowledged in her usual manner, 
while the younger, sitting with her face addressed to 
the window, bent her head so slightly that it would 
have been a greater compliment to the major to have 


224 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


made no sign at all, and to have left him to infei that 
he had not been heard or thought of. 

“ As to alteration in her, sir,” mused the major, on 
his way back; on which expedition — the afternoon 
being sunny and hot — he ordered the native and the 
light baggage to the front, and walked in the shadow 
of that expatriated prince : u as to alteration, sir, and 
pining, and so forth, that won’t go down with Joseph 
Bagstock. None of that, sir. It won’t do here. But 
as to there being something of a division between ’em 
— or a gulf as the mother calls it — damme, sir, that 
seems true enough. And it’s odd enough ! Well, sir ! ” 
panted the major, u Edith Granger and Dombey are 
well matched ; let ’em fight it out ! Bagstock backs the 
winner ! ” 

The major, by saying these latter words aloud, in the 
vigor of his thoughts, caused the unhappy native to stop, 
and turn round, in the belief that he was personally ad- 
dressed. Exasperated to the last degree by this act of 
insubordination, the major (though he was swelling with 
enjoyment of his own humor, at the moment of its oc- 
currence) instantly thrust his cane among the native’s 
ribs, and continued to stir him up at short intervals, all 
the way to the hotel. 

Nor was the major less exasperated as he dressed for 
dinner, during which operation the dark servant under- 
went the pelting of a shower of miscellaneous objects, 
varying in size from a boot to a hairbrush, and includ- 
ing everything that came within his master’s reach. For 
the major plumed himself on having the native in a per- 
fect state of drill, and visited the least departure from 
strict discipline with this kind of fatigue duty. Add 
to this, that he maintained the native about his person 


DoMBEY AND SON. 


225 


as a counter-irritant against the gout, and all other 
vexations, mental as well as bodily ; and the native 
would appear to have earned his pay — which was not 
large. 

At length the major having disposed of all the mis- 
siles that were convenient to his hand, and having called 
the native so many new names as must have given him 
great occasion to marvel at the resources of the English 
language, submitted to have his cravat put on ; and be- 
ing dressed, and finding himself in a brisk flow of spirits 
after this exercise, went down-stairs to enliven “ Dom- 
bey ” and his right-hand man. 

Dombey was not yet in the room, but the right-hand 
man was there, and his dental treasures were, as usual, 
ready for the major. 

“ Well, sir ! ” said the major. “ How have you passed 
the time since I had the happiness of meeting you ? 
Have you walked at all ? ” 

“ A saunter of barely half an hour’s duration,” re- 
turned Carker. “We have been so much occupied.” 

“ Business, eh ? ” said the major. 

“A variety of little matters necessary to be gone 
through,” replied Carker. “ But do you know — this is 
quite unusual with me, educated in a distrustful school, 
and who am not generally disposed to be communica- 
tive,” he said, breaking off, and speaking in a charming 
tone of frankness — “ but I feel quite confidential with 
you, Major Bagstock.” 

“ You do me honor, sir,” returned the major. “ You 
may be.” 

“ Do you know then,” pursued Carker, “ that I have 
not found my friend — our friend, I ought rather to call 
him ” — 


VOL. II. 


15 


226 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Meaning Dombey, sir ? ” cried the major. “ You 
see me, Mr. Carker, standing here ! J. B ? ” 

He was puffy enough to see, and blue enough ; and 
Mr. Carker intimated that he had that pleasure. 

“ Then you see a man, sir, who would go through 
fire and water to serve Dombey,” returned Major Bag- 
stock. 

Mr. Carker smiled, and said he was sure of it. “ Do 
you know, major,” he proceeded : “ to resume where I 
left off : that I have not found our friend so attentive to 
business to-day, as usual ? ” 

“ No ? 99 observed the delighted major. 

“ I have found him a little abstracted, and with his 
attention disposed to wander,” said Carker. 

“By Jove, sir,” cried the major, “there’s a lady in 
the case.” 

“ Indeed, I begin to believe there really is,” returned 
Carker. “I thought you might be jesting when you 
seemed to hint at it ; for I know you military men ” — 

The major gave the horse’s cough, and shook his head 
and shoulders, as much as to say, “ Well ! we are gay 
dogs, there’s no denying.” He then seized Mr. Carker 
by the button-hole, and with starting eyes whispered in 
his ear that she was a woman of extraordinary charms, 
sir. That she was a young widow, sir. That she was 
of a fine family, sir. That Dombey was over head and 
ears in love with her, sir, and that it would be a good 
match on both sides ; for she had beauty, blood, and 
talent, and Dombey had fortune ; and what more could 
any couple have ? Hearing Mr. Dombey’s footsteps 
without, the major cut himself short by saying, that Mr. 
Carker would see her to-morrow morning, and would 
judge for himself ; and between his mental excitement, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


227 


and the exertion of saying all this in wheezy whispers, 
the major sat gurgling in the throat and watering at the 
eyes, until dinner was ready. 

The major, like some other noble animals, exhibited 
himself to great advantage at feeding-time. On this oc- 
casion, he shone resplendent at one end of the table, 
supported by the milder lustre of Mr. Dombey at 
the other ; while Carker on one side lent his ray to 
either light, or suffered it to merge into both, as occasion 
arose. 

During the first course or two, the major was usually 
grave ; for the native, in obedience to general orders, 
secretly issued, collected every sauce and cruet round 
him, and gave him a great deal to do, in taking out the 
stoppers, and mixing up the contents in his plate. Be- 
sides which, the native had private zests and flavors on 
a side-table, with which the major daily scorched him- 
self ; to say nothing of strange machines out of which he 
spirted unknown liquids into the major’s drink. But on 
this occasion, Major Bagstock, even amidst these many 
occupations, found time to be social ; and his sociality 
consisted in excessive slyness for the behoof of Mr. 
Carker, and the betrayal of Mr. Dombey’s state of 
mind. 

“ Dombey,” said the major, “ you don’t eat ; what’s 
the matter ? ” 

“ Thank you,” returned that gentleman, “ I am doing 
very well ; I have no great appetite to-day.” 

“ Why, Dombey, what’s become of it?” asked the 
major. “ Where’s it gone ? You haven’t left it with 
our friends, I’ll swear, for I can answer for their having 
none to-day at luncheon. I can answer for one of ’em, 
’it least ; I won’t say which.” 


228 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Then the major winked at Carker, ana became so 
frightfully sly, that his dark attendant was obliged to pat 
him on the back, without orders, or he would probably 
have disappeared under the table. 

In a later stage of the dinner : that is to say, when 
the native stood at the major’s elbow ready to serve 
the first bottle of champagne : the major became still 
slyer. 

“ Fill this to the brim, you scoundrel,” said the major, 
holding up his glass. “ Fill Mr. Carker’s to the brim 
too. And Mr. Dombey’s too. By Gad, gentlemen,” 
said the major, winking at his new friend, while Mr. 
Dombey looked into his plate with a conscious air, 
“ we’ll consecrate this glass of wine to a divinity whom 
Joe is proud to know, and at a distance humbly and 
reverently to admire. Edith,” said the major, “ is her 
name ; angelic Edith ! ” 

“ To angelic Edith ! ” cried the smiling Carker. 

“ Edith, by all means,” said Mr. Dombey. 

The entrance of the waiters with new dishes caused 
the major to be slyer yet, but in a more serious vein. 
“ For though, among ourselves, Joe Bagstock mingles 
jest and earnest on this subject, sir,” said the major, lay- 
ing his finger on his lips, and speaking half apart to 
Carker, “ he holds that name too sacred to be made the 
property of these fellows, or of any fellows. Not a 
word, sir, while they are here ! ” 

This was respectful and becoming on the major’s part, 
and Mr. Dombey plainly felt it so. Although embar- 
rassed in his own frigid way, by the major’s allusions, 
Mr. Dombey had no objection to such rallying, it was 
clear, but rather courted it. Perhaps the major had 
been pretty near the truth, when he had divined that 


DOMBEY AND SON. . 


229 


morning that the great man who was too haughty for- 
merly to consult with, or confide in his prime minister, 
on such a matter, yet wished him to be fully possessed 
of it. Let this be how it may, he often glanced at Mr. 
Carker while the major plied his light artillery, and 
seemed watchful of its effect upon him. 

But the major, having secured an attentive listener, 
and a smiler who had not his match in all the world — 
“ in short, a de-vilish intelligent and agreeable fellow,” 
as he often afterwards declared — was not going to let 
him ofF with a little slyness personal to Mr. Dombey. 
Therefore, on the removal of the cloth, the major de- 
veloped himself as a choice spirit in the broader and 
more comprehensive range of narrating regimental 
stories, and cracking regimental jokes, which he did 
with such prodigal exuberance, that Carker was (or 
feigned to be) quite exhausted with laughter and admi- 
ration : while Mr. Dombey looked on over his starched 
cravat, like the major’s proprietor, or like a stately show- 
man who was glad to see his bear dancing well. 

When the major was too hoarse with meat and drink, 
and the display of his social powers to render himself 
intelligible any longer, they adjourned to coffee. After 
which, the major inquired of Mr. Carker the manager, 
with little apparent hope of an answer in the affirmative, 
if he played picquet. 

“ Yes, I play picquet a little,” said Mr. Carker. 

“ Backgammon, perhaps ? ” observed the major, hesi- 
tating. 

“Yes, I play backgammon a little too,” replied the 
man of teeth. 

“ Carker plays at all games, I believe,” said Mr. 
Dombey, laying himself on a sofa like a mar. of wood 


. DOMBEY AND SON. 


230 

without a hinge or a joint in him ; “ and plays them 
well.” 

In sooth, he played the two in question, to such per- 
fection, that the major was astonished, and asked him, 
at random, if he played chess. 

“ Yes, I play chess a little,” answered Carker. “ I 
have sometimes played, and won a game — it’s a mere 
trick — without seeing the board.” 

“ By Gad, sir ! ” said the major, staring, “ you’re a 
contrast to Dombey, who plays nothing.” 

u Oh ! He ! returned the manager. He has never 
had occasion to acquire such little arts. To men like 
me, they are sometimes useful. As at present, Major 
Bagstock, when they enable me to take a hand with 
you.” 

It might be only the false mouth, so smooth and wide ; 
and yet there seemed to lurk beneath the humility and 
subserviency of this short speech, a something like a 
snarl ; and for a moment, one might have thought 
that the white teeth were prone to bite the hand they 
fawned upon. But the major thought nothing about it, 
and Mr. Dombey lay meditating with his eyes half shut, 
during the whole of the play, which lasted until bed- 
time. 

By that time, Mr. Carker, though the winner, had 
mounted high into the major’s good opinion, insomuch, 
that when he left the major at his own room before 
going to bed, the major, as a special attention, sent the 
native — who always rested on a mattress spread upon 
the ground at his master’s door — along the gallery, to 
light him to his room in state. 

There was a faint blur on the surface of the mirror 
in Mr. Carker’s chamber, and its reflection was, perhaps, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


231 


a false one. But it showed, that night, the image of a 
man, who saw, in his fancy, a crowd of people slumber- 
ing on the ground at his feet, like the poor native at his 
master’s door : who picked his way among them : look- 
ing down maliciously enough : but trod upon no upturned 
&ee — as yet. 


232 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DEEPER SHADOWS. 

Mr. Career the manager rose with the lark, and 
went out, walking in the summer day. His meditations 
— and he meditated with contracted brows while he 
strolled along — hardly seemed to soar as high as the 
lark, or to mount in that direction ; rather they kept 
close to their nest upon the earth, and looked about, 
among the dust and worms. But there was not a bird 
in the air, singing unseen, farther beyond the reach of 
human eye than Mr. Carker’s thoughts. He had his 
face so perfectly under control, that few could say more, 
in distinct terms, of its expression, than that it smiled 
or that it pondered. It pondered now, intently. As 
the lark rose higher, he sank deeper in thought. As the 
lark poured out her melody clearer and stronger, he fell 
into a graver and profounder silence. At length, when 
the lark came headlong down, with an accumulating 
stream of song, and dropped among the green wheat 
near him, rippling in the breath of the morning like a 
river, he sprang up from his re very, and looked round 
with a sudden smile, as courteous and as soft as if he 
had had numerous observers to propitiate ; nor did he 
relapse, after being thus awakened ; but clearing his 
face, like one who bethought himself that it might oth- 
erwise wrinkle and tell tales, went smiling on, as if for 
practice 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


233 


Perhaps with an eye to first impressions, Mr. Carker 
was very carefully and trimly dressed, that morning. 
Though always somewhat formal in his dress, in imita- 
tion of the great man whom he served, he stopped short 
of the extent of Mr. Dombey’s stiffness : at once, per- 
haps, because he knew it to be ludicrous, and because 
in doing so he found another means of expressing his 
sense of the difference and distance between them. 
Some people quoted him indeed, in this respect, as a 
pointed commentary, and not a flattering one, on his icy 
patron — but the world is prone to misconstruction, and 
Mr. Carker was not accountable for its bad propensity. 

Clean and florid : with his light complexion, fading as 
it were, in the sun, and his dainty step enhancing the 
softness of the turf : Mr. Carker the manager strolled 
about meadows, and green lanes, and glided among ave- 
nues of trees, until it was time to return to breakfast. 
Taking a nearer way back, Mr. Carker pursued it, air- 
ing his teeth, and said aloud as he did so, “ Now to see 
the second Mrs. Dombey ! ” 

He had strolled beyond the town, and reentered it 
by a pleasant walk, where there was a deep shade of 
leafy trees, and where there were a few benches here 
and there for those who chose to rest. It not being a 
place of general resort at any hour, and wearing at that 
time of the still morning the air of being quite deserted 
and retired, Mr. Carker had it, or thought he had it, all 
to himself. So, with the whim of an idle man, to whom 
there yet remained twenty minutes for reaching a desti- 
nation easily accessible in ten, Mr. Carker threaded the 
great boles of the trees, and went passing in and out, 
before this one and behind that, weaving a chain of 
footsteps on the dewy ground. 


231 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Bat he found he was mistaken in supposing there was 
no one in the grove, for as he softly rounded the trunk 
of one large tree, on which the obdurate bark was knotted 
and over-lapped like the hide of a rhinoceros or some 
kindred monster of the ancient days before the flood, he 
saw an unexpected figure sitting on a bench near at 
hand, about which, in another moment, he would have 
wound the chain he was making. 

It was that of a lady, elegantly dressed and very 
handsome, whose -dark proud eyes were fixed upon the 
ground, and in whom some passion or struggle was rag- 
ing. For as she sat looking down, she held a corner 
of her under-lip within her mouth, her bosom heaved, 
her nostril quivered, her head trembled, indignant tears 
were on her cheek, and her foot was set upon the moss 
as though she would have crushed it into nothing. And 
yet almost the selfsame glance that showed him this, 
showed him the selfsame lady rising with a scornful 
air of weariness and lassitude, and turning away with 
nothing expressed in face or figure but careless beauty 
and imperious disdain. 

A withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so 
much like a gypsy as like any of that medley race of 
vagabonds who tramp about the country, begging, and 
stealing, and tinkering, and weaving rushes, by turns, 
or all together, had been observing the lady, too ; for, 
as she rose, this second figure, strangely confronting the 
first, scrambled up from the ground — out of it, it almost 
appeared — and stood in the way. 

“ Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady,” said the 
old woman, munching with her jaws, as if the Death’s 
head beneath her yellow skin were impatient to get 
out 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


235 


u I can tell it for myself,” was the reply. 

“ Ay, ay, pretty lady ; but not right. You didn’t 
iell it right when you were sitting there. I see you ! 
Give me a piece of silver, pretty lady, and I’ll tell 
your fortune true. There’s riches, pretty lady, in your 
face.” 

“I know,” returned the lady, passing her with a 
lark smile, and a proud step. “ I knew it before.” 

“ What ! Y r ou won’t give me nothing ? ” cried the 
old woman. “ You won’t give me nothing to tell your 
fortune, pretty lady ? How much will you give me not 
to tell it, then ? Give me something, or I’ll call it after 
you ! ” croaked the old woman, passionately. 

Mr. Carker, whom the lady was about to pass close, 
slinking against his tree as she crossed to gain the path, 
advanced so as to meet her, and pulling off his hat as 
she went by, bade the old woman hold her peace. The 
lady acknowledged his interference with an inclination 
of the head, and went her way. 

“ You give me something then, or I’ll call it after 
her ! ” screamed the old woman, throwing up her arms, 
and pressing forward against his outstretched hand. 
“ Or come,” she added, dropping her voice suddenly, 
looking at him earnestly, and seeming in a moment to 
forget the object of her wrath, “ give me something, or 
I’ll call it after yon!” 

“ After me , old lady ? ” returned the manager, putting 
his hand in his pocket. 

“ Yes,” said the woman, steadfast in her. scrutiny, and 
holding out her shrivelled hand, “/know!” 

“ What do you know ? ” demanded Carker, throwing 
aer a shilling. “ Do you know who the handsome lady 
ts?” 


236 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Munchi 1 ig like that sailor’s wife of yore, who had 
chestnuts in her lap, and scowling like the witch who 
asked for some in vain, the old woman picked the shil- 
ling up, and going backwards, like a crab, or like a 
heap of crabs : for her alternately expanding and con- 
tracting hands might have represented two of that 
species, and her creeping face, some half a dozen more: 
crouched on the veinous root of an old tree, pulled out 
a short black pipe from within the crown of her bonnet, 
lighted it with a match, and smoked in silence, looking 
fixedly at her questioner. 

Mr. Carker laughed, and turned upon his heel. 

“ Good ! ” said the old woman. “ One child dead, and 
one child living : one wife dead, and one wife coming. 
Go and meet her ! ” 

In spite of himself, the manager looked round again, 
and stopped. The old woman, who had not removed 
her pipe, and was munching and mumbling while she 
smoked, as if in conversation with an invisible familiar, 
pointed with her finger in the direction he was going, 
and laughed. 

“ What was that you said, Beldamite ? ” he demanded. 

The woman mumbled, and chattered, and smoked, and 
still pointed before him ; but remained silent. Mutter- 
ing a farewell that was not complimentary, Mr. Carker 
pursued his way ; but as he turned out of that place, and 
looked over his shoulder at the root of the old tree, he 
could yet see the finger pointing before him, and thought 
he heard the woman screaming, “ Go and meet her ! ” 

Preparations for a choice repast were completed he 
found, at the hotel ; and Mr. Dombey, and the major, 
and the breakfast, were awaiting the ladies. Individual 
constitution has much to do with the development of 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


237 


such facts, no doubt ; but in this case, appetite carried it 
hollow over the tender passion ; Mr. Dombey being very 
cool and collected, and the major fretting and fuming in 
a state of violent heat and irritation. At length the door 
was thrown open by the native, and, after a pause, occu- 
pied by her languishing along the gallery, a very bloom 
ing, but not a very youthful lady appeared. 

“ My dear Mr. Dombey ,” said the lady, “ I am afraid 
we are late, but Edith has been out already looking for 
a favorable point of view for a sketch, and kept me wait- 
ing for her. Falsest of majors,” giving him her little 
finger, “how do you?” 

“ Mrs. Skewton,” said Mr. Dombey, “ let me gratify 
my friend Carker : ” Mr. Dombey unconsciously empha- 
sized the word friend, as saying “no really; I do allow 
him to take credit for that distinction ; ” “ by presenting 
him to you. You have heard me mention Mr. Carker.” 

“ I am charmed, I am sure,” said Mrs. Skewton, gra- 
ciously. 

Mr. Carker was charmed, of course. Would he have 
been more charmed on Mr. Dombey’s behalf, if Mrs. 
Skewton had been (as he at first supposed her) the 
Edith whom they had toasted overnight ? 

“ Why, where, for Heaven’s sake is Edith ? ” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Skewton, looking round. “ Still at the 
door, giving Withers orders about the mounting of those 
drawings ! My dear Mr. Dombey, will you have the 
kindness ” — 

Mr. Dombey was already gone to seek her. Next 
moment he returned, bearing on his arm the same ele- 
gantly dressed and very handsome lady whom Mr. Car- 
ker had encountered underneath the trees. 

“ Carker ” — began Mr. Dombey. But the- r recog- 


238 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


nition of each other was so manifest, that Mr. Dombey 
stopped surprised. 

“ I am obliged to the gentleman,” said Edith, with a 
stately bend, “ for sparing me some annoyance from an 
importunate beggar just now.” 

“ I am obliged to my good fortune,” said Mr. Carker, 
bowing low, “ for the opportunity of rendering so slight 
a service to one whose servant I am proud to be.” 

As her eye rested on him for an instant, and then 
lighted on the ground, he saw in its bright and searching 
glance a suspicion that he had not come up at the mo- 
ment of his interference, but had secretly observed her 
sooner. As he saw that, she saw in his eye that her 
distrust was not without foundation. 

“ Really,” cried Mrs. Skewton, who had taken this 
opportunity of inspecting Mr. Carker through her glass, 
and satisfying herself (as she lisped audibly to the 
major) that he was all heart ; “ really now, this is one 
of the most enchanting coincidences that I ever heard 
of. The idea ! My dearest Edith, there is such an 
obvious destiny in it, that really one might almost be 
induced to cross one’s arms upon one’s frock, and say, 
like those wicked Turks, there is no What’s-his name but 
Thingummy, and What-you-may-call-it is his prophet!” 

Edith deigned no revision of this extraordinary quo- 
tation from the Koran, but Mr. Dombey felt it necessary 
to offer a few polite remarks. 

“ It gives me great pleasure,” said Mr. Dombey, with 
cumbrous gallantry, “ that a gentleman so nearly con* 
nected with myself as Carker is, should have had the 
honor and happiness of rendering the least assistance to 
Mrs. Granger.” Mr. Dombey bowed to her. “ But it 
gives me some pain, and it occasions me to be really en- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


239 


vious of Carker ; ” he unconsciously laid stress on these 
words, as sensible that they must appear to involve a 
very surprising proposition ; “ envious of Carker, that I 
had not that honor and that happiness myself.” Mr. 
Dombey bowed again. Edith, saving for a curl of her 
lip, was motionless. 

“ By the Lord, sir,” cried the major, bursting into 
speech at sight of the waiter, who was come to announce 
breakfast, “ it’s an extraordinary thing to me that no one 
can have the honor and happiness of shooting all such 
beggars through the head without being brought to book 
for it. But here’s an arm for Mrs. Granger, if she’ll do 
J. B. the honor to accept it ; and the greatest service 
Joe can render you, ma’am, just now, is, to lead you in 
to table ! ” 

With this, the major gave his arm to Edith ; Mr. 
Dombey led the way with Mrs. Skewton ; Mr. Carker 
went last, smiling on the party. 

“ I am quite rejoiced, Mr. Carker,” said the lady- 
mother, at breakfast, after another approving survey of 
him through her glass, “ that you have timed your visit 
so happily, as to go with us to-day. It is the most en- 
chanting expedition ! ” 

“Any expedition would be enchanting in such society,” 
returned Carker ; “ but I believe it is, in itself, full of 
interest.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Mrs. Skewton, with a faded little scream 
of rapture, “ the castle is charming ! — associations of the 
middle ages — and all that — which is so truly exqui- 
site. Don’t you dote upon the middle ages, Mr. Car- 
ker?” 

“Very much, indeed,” said Mr. Carker. 

a Such charming times ! ” cried Cleopatra. “ So full 


240 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


of faith ! So vigorous and forcible ! So picturesque ! 
So perfectly removed from commonplace ! Oh dear ! 
If they would only leave us a little more of the poetry 
of existence in these terrible days ! ” 

Mrs. Skew ton was looking sharp after Mr. Dombey 
all the time she said this, who was looking at Edith : 
who was listening, but who never lifted up her eyes. 

“We are dreadfully real, Mr. Carker,” said Mrs. 
Skewton ; “ are we not ? ” 

Few people had less reason to complain of their re- 
ality than Cleopatra, who had as much that was false 
about her as could well go to the composition of anybody 
with a real individual existence. But Mr. Carker com- 
miserated our reality nevertheless, and agreed that we 
were very hardly used in that regard. 

“ Pictures at the castle, quite divine ! ” said Cleopa- 
tra. “ I hope you dote upon pictures ? ” 

“ I assure you, Mrs. Skewton,’’ said Mr. Dombey, 
with solemn encouragement of his manager, u that Car- 
ker has a very good taste for pictures ; quite a natural 
power of appreciating them. He is a very creditable 
artist himself. He will be delighted, I am sure, with 
Mrs. Granger’s taste and skill.” 

“ Damme, sir ! ” cried Major Bagstock, “ my opinion 
is, that you’re the admirable Carker, and can do any- 
thing.” 

“ Oh ! ” smiled Carker, with humility, “ you are much 
too sanguine, Major Bagstock. I can do very little. 
But Mr. Dombey is so generous in his estimation of any 
trivial accomplishment a man like myself may find it 
almost necessary to acquire, and to which, in his very 
different sphere, he is far superior, that ” — Mr. Carker 
shrugged his shoulders, deprecating further praise, and 
6aid no more. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


241 


All this time, Edith never raised her eyes, unless to 
glance towards her mother when that lady’s fervent spirit 
shone forth in words. But as Carker ceased, she looked 
at Mr. Dombey for a moment. For a moment only; 
but with a transient gleam of scornful wonder on her 
face, not lost on one observer, who was smiling round 
I he board. 

Mr. Dombey caught the dark eyelash in its descent, 
and took the opportunity of arresting it. 

“ You have been to Warwick often, unfortunately ? ” 
said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Several times.” 

“ The visit will be tedious to you, I am afraid.” 

“ Oh no ; not at all.” 

“ Ah ! You are like your cousin Feenix, my dearest 
Edith,” said Mrs. Skewton. “ He has been to Warwick 
Castle fifty times, if he has been there once ; yet if he 
came to Leamington to-morrow — I wish he would, dear 
angel ! — he would make his fifty-second visit next day.” 

“We are all enthusiastic, are we not, mama?” said 
Edith, with a cold smile. 

“Too much so, for our peace, perhaps, my dear,”. re- 
turned her mother ; “ but we won’t complain. Our own 
emotions are our recompense. If, as your cousin Feenix 
says, the sword wears out the what’s-its-name ” — 

“ The scabbard, perhaps,” said Edith. 

“ Exactly — a little too fast, it is because it is bright 
and glowing, you know, my dearest love.” 

Mrs. Skewton heaved a gentle sigh, supposed to cast a 
shadow on the surface of that dagger of lath, whereof her 
susceptible bosom was the sheath ; and leaning her head 
on one side, in the Cleopatra manner looked with pensive 
affection on her darling child. 

16 


VOL. II. 


242 


DOM BEY AND SON. 


Edith had turned her face towards Mr. Dombey when 
he first addressed her, and had remained in that attitude, 
while speaking to her mother, and while her mother 
spoke to her, as though offering him her attention, if he 
had anything more to say. There was something in the 
manner of this simple courtesy : almost defiant, and giv- 
ing it the character of being rendered on compulsion, or 
as a matter of traffic to which she was a reluctant party : 
again not lost upon that same observer who was smiling 
round the board. It set him thinking of her as he had 
first seen her, when she had believed herself to be alone 
among the trees. 

Mr. Dombey having nothing else to say, proposed — 
the breakfast being now finished, and the major gorged, 
like any boa constrictor — that they should start. A 
barouche being in waiting, according to the orders of 
that gentleman, the two ladies, the major and himself, 
took their seats in it ; the native and the wan page 
mounted the box, Mr. Towlinson being left behind ; and 
Mr. Carker, on horseback, brought up the rear. 

Mr. Carker cantered behind the carriage, at the dis- 
tance of a hundred yards or so, and watched it, during all 
the ride, as if he were a cat, indeed, and its four occu- 
pants, mice. Whether he looked to one side of the road, 
or to the other — over distant landscape, with its smooth 
undulations, wind-mills, corn, grass, bean-fields, wild- 
flowers, farm-yards, hay -ricks, and the spire among the 
wood — or upward in the sunny air, where butterflies 
were sporting round his head, and birds were pouring out 
their songs — or downward, where the shadows of the 
branches interlaced, and made a trembling carpet on the 
road — or onward, where the overhanging trees formed 
aisles and arches, dim with the softened light that steeped 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


243 


through leaves — one corner of his eye was ever on the 
formal head of Mr. Dombey, addressed towards him, and 
the feather in the bonnet, drooping so neglectfully and 
scornfully between them : much as he had seen the 
haughty eyelids droop ; not least so, when the face met 
that now fronting it. Once, and once only, did his wary 
glance release these objects ; and that was, when a leap 
over a low hedge, and a gallop across a field, enabled 
him to anticipate the carriage coming by the road, and to 
be standing ready, at the journey’s end, to hand the ladies 
out. Then, and but then, he met her glance for an in- 
stant in her first surprise ; but when he touched her, in 
alighting, with his soft white hand, it overlooked him 
altogether as before. 

Mrs. Skewton was bent on taking charge of Mr. Car- 
ker herself, and showing him the beauties of the Castle. 
She was determined to have his arm, and the major’s 
too. It would do that incorrigible creature : who was 
the most barbarous infidel in point of poetry : good to be 
in such company. This chance arrangement left Mr. 
Dombey at liberty to escort Edith : which he did : stalk- 
ing before them through the apartments with a gentle- 
manly solemnity. 

“ Those darling by-gone times, Mr. Carker,” said Cleo- 
patra, “ with their delicious fortresses, and their dear old 
dungeons, and their delightful places of torture, and their 
romantic vengeances, and their picturesque assaults and 
sieges, and everything that makes life truly charming ! 
How dreadfully we have degenerated ! ” 

“ Yes, we have fallen off deplorably,” said Mr. Carker. 

The peculiarity of their conversation was, that Mrs. 
Skewton, in spite of her ecstasies, and Mr. Carker, in 
spite of h/s urbanity, were both intent on watching Mr. 


244 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Dombey and Edith. With all their conversational en- 
dowments, they spoke somewhat distractedly, and at 
random in consequence. 

“ We have no faith left, positively/’ said Mrs. Skewton, 
advancing her shrivelled ear ; for Mr. Dombey was say- 
ing something to Edith. “ We have no faith in the dear 
old barons, who were the most delightful creatures — or 
in the dear old priests, who were the most warlike of 
men — or even in the days of that inestimable Queen 
Bess, upon the wall there, which were so extremely 
golden ! Dear creature ! She was all heart ! And that 
charming father of hers ! I hope you dote on Harry the 
Eighth ! ” 

“ I admire him very much,” said Carker. 

“So bluff!” cried Mrs. Skewton, “wasn’t he? So 
burly. So truly English. Such a picture, too, he 
makes, with his dear little peepy eyes, and his benev- 
olent chin!” 

w Ah, ma’am ! ” said Carker, stopping short ; “ but if 
you speak of pictures, there’s a composition ! What 
gallery in the world can produce the counterpart of 
that ! ” 

As the smiling gentleman thus spake, he pointed 
through a door- way to where Mr. Dombey and Edith 
were standing alone in the centre of another room. 

They were not interchanging a word or a look. Stand- 
ing together, arm in arm, they had the appearance of 
being more divided than if seas had rolled between them. 
There was a difference even in the pride of the two, that 
removed them farther from each other, than if one had 
been the proudest and the other the humblest specimen 
of humanity, in all creation. He, self-important, un- 
bending, formal, austere. She, lovely and graceful in 


DOMBEY AND SON.' 


245 


an uncommon degree, but totally regardless of herself 
and him and everything around, and spurning her own 
attractions with her haughty brow and lip, as if they 
were a badge or livery she hated. So unmatched were 
they, and opposed, so forced and linked together by a 
chain which adverse hazard and mischance had forged : 
that fancy might have imagined the pictures on the walls 
around them, startled by the unnatural conjunction, and 
observant of it in their several expressions. Grim 
knights and warriors looked scowling on them. A 
churchman, with his hand upraised, denounced the mock- 
ery of such a couple coming to God's altar. Quiet 
waters in landscapes, with the sun reflected in their 
depths, asked, if better means of escape were not at 
hand, was there no drowning left? Ruins cried, “Look 
here, and see what We are, wedded to uncongenial 
Time ! ” Animals, opposed by nature, worried one 
another, as a moral to them. Loves and Cupids took 
to flight afraid, and Martyrdom had no such torment in 
its painted history of suffering. 

Nevertheless, Mrs. Skewton was so charmed by the 
sight to which Mr. Carker invoked her attention, that 
she could not refrain from saying, half aloud, how 
sweet, how very full of soul it was! Edith, overhear- 
ing, looked round, and flushed indignant scarlet to her 
hair. 

“ My dearest Edith knows I was admiring her!" said 
Cleopatra, tapping her, almost timidly, on the back with 
her parasol. “ Sweet pet ! ” 

Again Mr. Carker saw the strife he had witnessed 
so unexpectedly among the trees. Again he saw the 
haughty languor and indifference come over it, and hide 
it like a cloud. 


246 


♦DOMBEY AND SON. 


She did not raise her eyes to him ; but with a slight 
peremptory motion of them, seemed to bid her mother 
come near. Mrs. Skewton thought it expedient to un- 
derstand the hint, and advancing quickly, with her two 
cavaliers, kept near her daughter from that time. 

Mr. Carker now, having nothing to distract his atten- 
tion, began to discourse upon the pictures, and to select 
the best, and point them out to Mr. Dombey : speaking 
with his usual familiar recognition of Mr. Dombey’s 
greatness, and rendering homage by adjusting his eye- 
glass for him, or finding out the right place in his cata- 
logue, or holding his stick, or the like. These services 
did not so much originate with Mr. Carker, in truth, as 
with Mr. Dombey himself, who was apt to assert his 
chieftainship by saying, with subdued authority, and in 
an easy way — for him — “ Here, Carker, have the good- 
ness to assist me, will you ! ” which the smiling gentleman 
always did with pleasure. 

They made the tour of the pictures, the walls, crow’s 
nest, and so forth ; and as they were still one little party, 
and the major was rather in the shade, being sleepy dur- 
ing the' process of digestion, Mr. Carker became com- 
municative and agreeable. At first, he addressed him- 
self for the most part to Mrs. Skewton ; but as that 
sensitive lady was in such ecstasies with the works of 
art, after the first quarter of an hour, that she could do 
nothing but yawn (they were such perfect inspirations, 
she observed as a reason for that mark of rapture), he 
transferred his attentions to Mr. Dombey. Mr. Dombey 
said little beyond an occasional “ Very true, Carker, ” or 
‘Indeed, Carker?” but he tacitly encouraged Carker to 
proceed, and inwardly approved of his behavior very 
much : deeming it as well that somebody should talk, 


DOMBEY 4ND SON. 


247 


and thinking that his remarks, which were, as one might 
say, a branch of the parent establishment, might amuse 
Mrs. Granger. Mr. Carker, who possessed an excel- 
lent discretion, never took the liberty of addressing that 
lady, direct ; but she seemed to listen, though she never 
looked at him ; and once or twice, when he was emphatic 
in his peculiar humility, the twilight smile stole over hei 
face, not as a light, but as a deep black shadow. 

Warwick Castle being at length pretty well exhausted, 
and the major very much so : to say nothing of Mrs. 
Skewton, whose peculiar demonstrations of delight had 
become very frequent indeed : the carriage was again 
put in requisition, and they rode to several admired 
points of view in the neighborhood. Mr. Dombey cer- 
emoniously observed of one of these, that a sketch, 
however slight, from the fair hand of Mrs. Granger, 
would be a remembrance to him of that agreeable day : 
though he wanted no artificial remembrance, he was sure 
(here Mr. Dombey made another of his bows), which he 
must always highly value. Withers the lean having 
Edith’s sketch-book under his arm, was immediately 
called upon by Mrs. Skewton to produce the same : 
and the carriage stopped, that Edith might make the 
drawing, which Mr. Dombey was to put away among 
his treasures. 

“But I am afraid I trouble you too much,” said 
Mr. Dombey. 

“ By no means. Where would you wish it taken 
from ? ” she answered, turning to him with the same 
enforced attention as before, 

Mr. Dombey, with another bow, which cracked the 
starch in his cravat, would beg to leave that to the 
artist. 


248 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


I would rather you choose for your^lf,” said Edith. 

44 Suppose then,” said Mr. Dombey, 44 we say from 
here. It appears a good spot for the purpose, or — 
Carker, what do you think ? ” 

There happened to be in the foreground, at some 
little distance, a grove of trees, not unlike that in which 
Mr. Carker had made his chain of footsteps in the morn- 
ing, and with a seat under one tree, generally resem- 
bling, in the general character of its situation, the point 
where his chain had broken. 

44 Might I venture to suggest to Mrs. Granger?” said 
Carker, 44 that that is an interesting — almost a curious 
• — point of view ? ” 

She followed the direction of his riding-whip with her 
eyes, and raised them quickly to his face. It was the 
second glance they had exchanged since their introduc- 
tion ; and would have been exactly like the first, but 
that its expression was plainer. 

44 Would you like that?” said Edith to Mr. Dombey. 

44 1 shall be charmed,” said Mr. Dombey to Edith. 

Therefore the carriage was driven to the spot where 
Mr. Dombey was to be charmed ; and Edith, without 
moving from her seat, and opening her sketch-book with 
her usual proud indifference, began to sketch. 

44 My pencils are all pointless,” she said, stopping and 
turning them over. 

44 Pray allow me,” said Mr. Dombey. 44 Or Carker 
will do it better, as he understands these things. 
Carker have the goodness to see to these pencils for 
Mrs. Granger.” 

Mr. Carker rode up close to the carriage-door on 
Mrs. Granger’s side, and letting the rein fall on his 
horse’s neck, took the pencils from her hand with a 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


249 


smile and a bow, and sat in the saddle leisurely mend- 
ing them. Having done so he begged to be allowed to 
hold them, and to hand them to her as they were re- 
quired; and thus Mr. Carker, with many commendations 
of Mrs. Granger’s extraordinary skill — especially in 
trees — remained close at her side, looking over the 
drawing as she made it. Mr. Dombey in the mean time 
stood bolt upright in the carriage like a highly respecta- 
ble ghost, looking on too ; while Cleopatra and the major 
dallied as two ancient doves might do. 

“ Are you satisfied with that, or shall I finish it a 
little more ? ” said Edith, showing the sketch to Mr. 
Dombey. 

Mr. Dombey begged that it might not be touched ; 
it was perfection. 

“ It is most extraordinary,” said Carker, bringing 
every one of his red gums to bear upon his praise. “ I 
was not prepared for anything so beautiful, and so un- 
usual altogether.” 

This might have applied to the sketcher no less than 
to the sketch ; but Mr. Carker’s manner was openness 
itself — not as to his mouth alone, but as to his whole 
spirit. So it continued to be while the drawing was 
laid aside for Mr. Dombey, and while the sketching 
materials were put up ; then he handed in the pencils 
(which were received with a distant acknowledgment 
of his help, but without a look), and tightening his rein, 
fell back, and followed the carriage again. 

Thinking, perhaps, as he rode, that even this trivial 
sketch had been made and delivered to its owner, as if 
it had been bargained for and bought. Thinking, per- 
haps, that although she had assented with such perfect 
readiness to his request, her haughty face, bent over the 


250 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


drawing, or glancing at the distant objects represented 
in it, had been the face of a proud woman, engaged in 
a sordid and miserable transaction. Thinking, perhaps, 
of such things : but smiling certainly, and while he 
seemed to look about him freely, in enjoyment of the 
air and exercise, keeping always that sharp corner of 
his eye upon the carriage. 

A stroll among the haunted ruins of Kenilworth, and 
more rides to more points of view : most of which, Mrs. 
Skewton reminded Mr. Dombey, Edith had already 
sketched, as he had seen in looking over her drawings : 
brought the day’s expedition to a close. Mrs. Skewton 
and Edith were driven to their own lodgings ; Mr. 
Carker was graciously invited by Cleopatra to return 
thither with Mr. Dombey and the major, in the even- 
ing, to hear some of Edith’s music; and the three gen- 
tlemen repaired to their hotel to dinner. 

The dinner was the counterpart of yesterday’s, except 
that the major was twenty -four hours more triumphant 
and less mysterious. Edith was toasted again. Mr. 
Dombey was again agreeably embarrassed. And Mr 
Carker was full of interest and praise. 

There were no other visitors at Mrs. Skewton’s. 
Edith’s drawings were strewn about the room, a little 
more abundantly than usual perhaps ; and Withers, the 
wan page, handed round a little stronger tea. The harp 
was there ; the piano was there ; and Edith sang and 
played. But even the music was paid by Edith to Mr. 
Dombey’s order, as it were, in the same uncompromising 
way. As thus. 

“ Edith, my dearest love,” said Mrs. Skewton, half an 
hour after tea, “ Mr. Dombey is dying to hear yo.i, I 
know.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


25 1 

“ Mr. Dombey has life enough left to say so for him- 
self, mama, I have no doubt.” 

“ I shall be immensely obliged,” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ What do you wish ? ” 

“ Piano ? ” hesitated Mr. Dombey. 

“ Whatever you please. You have only to choose/ 1 

Accordingly, she began with the piano. It was the 
same with the harp ; the same with her singing ; the 
same with the selection of the pieces that she sang and 
played. Such frigid and constrained, yet prompt and 
pointed acquiescence with the wishes he imposed upon 
her, and on no one else, was sufficiently remarkable to 
penetrate through all the mysteries of picquet, and im- 
press itself on Mr. Carker’s keen attention. Nor did he 
lose sight of the fact that Mr. Dombey was evidently 
proud of his power, and liked to show it. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Carker played so well — some 
games with the major, and some with Cleopatra, whose 
vigilance of eye in respect of Mr. Dombey and Edith 
no lynx could have surpassed — that he even heightened 
his position in the lady-mother’s good graces ; and when 
on taking leave he regretted that he would be obliged 
to return to London next morning, Cleopatra trusted : 
community of feeling not being met with every day : 
that it was far from being the last time they would 
meet. 

“ I hope so,” said Mr. Carker, with an expressive 
look at the couple in the distance, as he drew towards 
the door, following the major. “ I think so.” 

Mr. Dombey, who had taken a stately leave of Edith, 
bent, or made some approach to a bend, over Cleopatra’s 
couch, and said, in a low voice : 

“ J have requested Mrs. Granger’s permission to call 


25 2 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


on her to-morrow morning — for a purpose — and she 
has appointed twelve o’clock. May I hope to have 
the pleasure of finding you at home, madam, after- 
wards ? ” 

Cleopatra was so much fluttered and moved, by hear- 
ing this, of course incomprehensible speech, that she 
could only shut her eyes, and shake her head, and give 
Mr. Dombey her hand ; which Mr. Dombey, not exactly 
knowing what to do with dropped. 

“ Dombey, come along ! ” cried the major looking in 
\t the door. “ Damme, sir, old Joe has a great mind to 
propose an alteration in the name of the Royal Hotel, 
and that it should be called the Three Jolly Bachelors, 
in honor of ourselves and Carker.” With this the ma- 
jor slapped Mr. Dombey on the back, and winking over 
his shoulder at the ladies, with a frightful tendency of 
blood to the head, carried him off. 

Mrs. Skewton reposed on her sofa, and Edith sat 
apart, by her harp, in silence. The mother, trifling 
with her fan, looked stealthily at the daughter more 
than once, but the daughter, brooding gloomily with 
downcast eyes, was not to be disturbed. 

Thus they remained for a long hour, without a word, 
until Mrs. Skewton’s maid appeared, according to cus- 
tom, to prepare her gradually for night. At night, she 
should have been a skeleton, with dart and hour-glass, 
rather than a woman, this attendant ; for her touch was 
as the touch of Death. The painted object shrivelled 
underneath her hand ; the form collapsed, the hair 
dropped off, the arched dark eyebrows changed to scanty 
tufts of gray ; the pale lips shrunk, the skin became 
cadaverous and loose ; and old, worn, yellow nodding 
woman, with red eyes, alone remained in Cleopatra's 


POM BEY AND SON. 


253 


place, huddled up, like a slovenly bundle, in a greasy 
flannel gown. 

The very voice was changed, as it addressed Edith, 
when they were alone again. 

“ Why don't you tell me,” it said, sharply, “ that he is 
coming here to-morrow by appointment ? ” 

“ Because you know it,” returned Edith, “mother.” 

The mocking emphasis she laid on that one word ! 

“ You know he has bought me,” she resumed. “ Or 
that he will, to-morrow. He has considered of his bar- 
gain ; he has shown it to his friend ; he is even rather 
proud of it ; he thinks that it will suit him, and may be 
had sufficiently cheap ; and he will buy to-morrow. God, 
that I have lived for this, and that I feel it ! ” 

Compress into one handsome face the conscious self- 
abasement, and the burning indignation of a hundred 
women, strong in passion and in pride ; and there it 
hid itself with two white shuddering arms. 

“ What do you mean ? ” returned the angry mother. 
“ Haven’t you from a child ” — 

“ A child ! ” said Edith, looking at her, “ when was I 
a child ! What childhood did you ever leave to me ? 
I was a woman — artful, designing, mercenary, laying 
snares for men — before I knew myself, or you, or even 
understood the base and wretched aim of every new dis- 
play I learnt. You gave birth to a woman. Look upon 
her. She is in her. pride to-night.” 

And as she spoke, she struck her hand upon her 
beautiful bosom, as though she would have beaten down 
herself. 

“ Look at me,” she said, “ who have never known 
what it is to have an honest heart, and love. Look at 
me, taught to scheme and plot when children play, and 


254 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


married in my youth — an old age of design — to one 
for whom I had no feeling but indifference. Look at 
me, whom he left a widow, dying before his inheritance 
descended to him — a judgment on you ! well deserved ! 
— and tell me what has been my life for ten years 
since.” 

w We have been making every effort to endeavor to 
secure to you a good establishment,” rejoined her mother. 
“ That has been your life. And now you have got it.” 

“ There is no slave in a market, there is no horse in a 
fair, so shown and offered and examined and paraded, 
mother, as I have been, for ten shameful years,” cried 
Edith, with a burning brow, and the same bitter empha- 
sis on the one word. “ Is it not so ? Have I been made 
the by-word of all kinds of men ? Have fools, have 
profligates, have boys, have dotards, dangled after me, 
and one by one rejected me, and fallen off, because you 
were too plain with all your cunning — yes, and too 
true, with all those false pretences — until we have al- 
most come to be notorious ? The license of look and 
touch,” she said, with flashing eyes, “ have I submitted 
to it, in half the places of resort upon the map of Eng- 
land ? Have I been hawked and vended here and there, 
until the last grain of self-respect is dead within me, and 
I loathe myself? Has this been my late childhood? I 
had none before. Do not tell me that I had, to-night, 
of all nights in my life ! ” 

44 You might have been well married,” said her mother, 
twenty times at least, Edith, if you had given encour- 
agement enough.” 

44 No ! Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as I well 
deserve to be,” she answered, raising her head, and 
trembling in her energy of shame and stormy pride, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


255 


44 shall take me, as this man does, with no an of mine 
put forth to lure him. He sees me at the auction, and 
he thinks it well to buy me. Let him ! When he came 
to view me — perhaps to bid — he required to see the 
roll of my accomplishments. I gave it to him. When 
he would have me show one of them, to justify his pur- 
chase to his men, I require of him to say which he de- 
mands, and I exhibit it. I will do no more. He makes 
the purchase of his own will, and with his own sense of 
its worth, and the power of his money ; and I hope it 
may never disappoint him. I have not vaunted and 
pressed the bargain ; neither have you, so far as I have 
been able to prevent you.” 

“ You talk strangely to-night, Edith, to your own 
mother.” 

“ It seems so to me ; stranger to me than you,” said 
Edith. “ But my education was completed long ago. I 
am too old now, and have fallen too low, by degrees, to 
take a new course, and to stop yours, and to help myself. 
The germ of all that purifies a woman’s breast, and 
makes it true and good, has never stirred in mine, and I 
have nothing else to sustain me when I despise myself.” 
There had been a touching sadness in her voice, but it 
was gone, when she went on to say, 44 So, as we are gen- 
teel and poor, I am content that we should be made rich 
by these means ; all I say is, I have kept the only pur- 
pose I have had the strength to form — 1 had almost 
said the power, with you at my side, mother — and have 
not tempted this man on.” 

44 This man ! You speak,” said her mother, 44 as if yon 
hated him.” 

“And you thought I loved him, did you not?” she 
answered, stopping on her way across the room, and 


256 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


looking round. “ Shall I tell you,” she continued, with 
her eyes fixed on her mother, “ who already knows us 
thoroughly, and reads us right, and before whom I have 
even less of self-respect or confidence than before my 
own inward self : being so much degraded by his knowl- 
edge of me?” 

“ This is an attack, I suppose,” returned her mother, 
coldly, “on poor, unfortunate what’s-his-name — Mr. 
Carker! Your want of self-respect and confidence, my 
dear, in reference to that person (who is very agreeable, 
it strikes me), is not likely to have much effect on your 
establishment. Why do you look at me so hard ? Are 
you ill?” 

Edith suddenly let fall her face, as if it had been 
stung, and while she pressed her hands upon it, a ter- 
rible tremble crept over her whole frame. It was 
quickly gone ; and with her usual step she passed out 
of the room. 

The maid, who should have been a skeleton, then re- 
appeared, and giving one arm to her mistress, who ap- 
peared to have taken off her manner with her charms, 
and to have put on paralysis with her flannel gown, col- 
lected the ashes of Cleopatra, and carried them away, 
ready for to-morrow’s revivification. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


257 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

ALTERATIONS. 

“So the day has come at length, Susan,” said Florence 
to the excellent Nipper, “ when we are going back to our 
quiet home ! ” 

Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expres- 
sion not easily described, and further relieving her feel- 
ings with a smart cough, answered, “ Very quiet indeed, 
Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.” 

“ When I was a child,” said Florence, thoughtfully, 
and after musing for some moments, “ did you ever see 
that gentleman who has taken the trouble to ride down 
here to speak to me, now three times — three times I 
think, Susan ? ” 

“ Three times, miss,” returned the Nipper. “ Once 
when you was out a-walking with them Sket” — 

Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper 
checked herself. 

“ With Sir Barnet and hfe lady, I mean to say, miss, 
and the young gentlen\a,n, And two evenings since 

then.” 

“ When I was a child, and Yfhen company used to 
come to visit papa, did you eve^ see that gentleman 
at home, Susan ? ” asked Florence. 

“ Well, miss,” returned her maid, after considering, 
u I really couldn’t say I ever did. When your poor 
YOT ff. 17 


258 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


dear ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new in the family, 
you see, and fay element : ” the Nipper bridled, as opin- 
ing that her merits had been always designedly ex- 
tinguished by Mr. Dombey : “ was the floor below the 
attics.” 

“ To be sure,” said Florence, still thoughtfully ; “ you 
are not likely to have known who came to the house I 
quite forgot.” 

“ Not, miss, but what we talked about the family and 
visitors,” said Susan, “and but what I heard much said, 
although the nurse before Mrs. Richards did make un- 
pleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint at 
little Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor 
thing,” observed Susan with composed forbearance, “ to 
habits of intoxication, for which she was required to 
leave, and did.” 

Florence, who was seated at her chamber-window, 
with her face resting on her hand, sat looking out. 
and hardly seemed to hear what Susan said, she was 
so lost in thought. 

“ At all events, miss,” said Susan, “ I remember very 
well that this same gentleman, Mr. Carker, was almost, 
if not quite, as great a gentleman with your papa then, 
as he is now. It used to be said in the house then, 
miss, that he was at the head of all your pa’s affairs in 
the city, and managed the whole, and that your pa 
minded him more than anybody, which, begging your 
pardon, Miss Floy, he might easy do, for he never 
minded anybody else. I knew that, Pitcher as I might 
have been.” 

Susan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the 
nurse before Mrs. Richards, emphasized “ Pitcher *' 
strongly. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


259 


u And that Mr. Carker has not fallen off, miss,” she 
pursued, “ but has stood his ground, and kept his credit 
with your pa, I know from what is always said among 
our people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the 
house, and though he’s the weakest weed in the world, 
Miss Floy, and no one can have a moment’s patience 
with the man, he knows what goes on in the City toler- 
able well, and says that your pa does nothing without 
Mr. Carker, and leaves all to Mr. Carker, and acts ac- 
cording to Mr. Carker, and has Mr. Carker always at 
his elbow, and I do believe that he believes (that wash- 
iest of Perches) that after your pa, the Emperor of India 
is the child unborn to Mr. Carker.” 

Not a word of this was lost on Florence, who, with an 
awakened interest in Susan’s speech, no longer gazed 
abstractedly on the prospect without, but looked at her, 
and listened with attention. 

“ Yes, Susan,” she said, when that young lady had 
concluded. “ He is in papa’s confidence, and is his 
friend, I am sure.” 

Florence’s mind ran high on this theme, and had done 
for some days. Mr. Carker, in the two visits with which 
he had followed up his first one, had assumed a confi- 
dence between himself and her — a right on his part 
to be mysterious and stealthy, in telling her that the 
ship was still unheard of — a kind of mildly restrained 
power, and authority over her — that made her wonder, 
and caused her great uneasiness. She had no means 
of repelling it, or of freeing herself from the web he 
was gradually winding about her ; for that would have 
required some art and knowledge of the world, opposed 
to such address as his ; and Florence had none. True, 
L\e had said no more to her than that there was no 


260 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


news of the ship, and that he feared the worst ; but 
how he came to know that she was interested in the 
ship, and why he had the right to signify his knowledge 
to her, so insidiously and darkly, troubled Florence very 
much. 

This conduct on the part of Mr. Carker, and her 
habit of often considering it with wonder and uneasi- 
ness, began to invest him with an uncomfortable fasci- 
nation in Florence’s thoughts. A more distinct remem- 
brance of his features, voice, and manner : which she 
sometimes courted, as a means of reducing him to the 
level of a real personage, capable of exerting no greater 
charm over her than another : did not remove the vague 
impression. And yet he never frowned, or looked upon 
her with an air of dislike or animosity, but was always 
smiling and serene. 

Again, Florence, in pursuit of her strong purpose 
with reference to her father, and her steady resolution 
to believe that she was herself unwittingly to blame for 
their so cold and distant relations, would recall to mind 
that this gentleman was his confidential friend, and would 
think, with an anxious heart, could her struggling ten- 
dency to dislike and fear him be a part of that misfor- 
tune in her, which had turned her father’s love adrift, 
and left her so alone ? She dreaded that it might be ; 
sometimes believed it was : then she resolved that she 
would try to conquer this wrong feeling ; persuaded 
herself that she was honored and encouraged by the 
notice of her father’s friend ! and hoped that patient 
observation of him and trust in him would lead her 
bleeding feet along that stony road which ended in her 
tather’s heart. 

Thus, with no one to advise her — for she could ad- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


261 


vise with no one without seeming to complain against 
him — gentle Florence tossed on an uneasy sea of doubt 
and hope ; and Mr. Carker, like a scaly monster of the 
deep, swam down below, and kept his shining eye upon 

her. 

Florence had a new reason in all this for wishing to 
be at home again. Her lonely life was better suited to 
her course of timid hope and doubt : and she feared 
sometimes, that in her absence she might miss some 
hopeful chance of testifying her affection for her father. 
Heaven knows, she might have set her mind at rest, 
poor child ! on this last point ; but her slighted love 
was fluttering within her, and, even in her sleep, it flew 
away in dreams, and nestled, like a wandering bird come 
home, upon her father’s neck. 

Of Walter she thought often. Ah ! how often, when 
the night was gloomy, and the wind was blowing round 
the house ! But hope was strong in her breast. It is 
so difficult for the young and ardent, even with such 
experience as hers, to imagine youth and ardor quenched 
like a weak flame, and the bright day of life merging 
into night, at noon, that hope was strong yet. Her tears 
fell frequently for Walter’s sufferings, but rarely for his 
supposed death, and never long. 

She had written to the old Instrument-maker, but had 
received no answer to her note : which indeed required 
none. Thus matters stood with Florence on the morn- 
ing when she was going home, gladly, to her old secluded 
life. 

Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, accompanied (much against 
his will) by their valued charge, Master Barnet, were 
already gone back to Brighton, where that young gen- 
tleman and his fellow pilgrims to Parnassus were then, 


262 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


no doubt, in the continual resumption c*f their studies. 
The holiday time was past and over ; most of the juve- 
nile guests at the villa had taken their departure ; and 
Florence’s long visit was come to an end. 

There was one guest, however, albeit not resident 
within the house, who had been very constant in his 
attention to the family, and who still remained devoted 
to them. This was Mr. Toots, who after renewing, some 
weeks ago, the acquaintance he had had the happiness 
of forming with Skettles Junior, on the night when he 
Durst the Blimberian bonds and soared into freedom with 
his ring on, called regularly every other day, and left a 
perfect pack of cards at the hall-door ; so many indeed, 
that the ceremony was quite a deal on the part of 
Mr. Toots, and a hand at whist on the part of the 
servant. 

Mr. Toots, likewise, with the bold and happy idea of 
preventing the family from forgetting him (but there is 
reason to suppose that this expedient originated in the 
teeming brain of the Chicken), had established a six- 
oared cutter, manned by aquatic friends of the Chicken’s 
and steered by that illustrious character in person, who 
wore a bright red fireman’s coat for the purpose, and 
concealed the perpetual black eye with which he was 
afflicted, beneath a green shade. Previous to the insti- 
tution of this equipage, Mr. Toots sounded the Chicken 
on a hypothetical case, as, supposing the Chicken to be 
enamored of a young lady named Mary, and to have 
conceived the intention of starting a boat of his own, 
what would he call that boat? The Chicken replied, 
with divers strong asseverations, that he would either 
christen it Poll or the Chicken’s Delight. Improving 
an this idea, Mr. Toots, after deep study and the exer* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


2G3 


cise of much invention, resolved to call his boat The 
Toots’s Joy, as a delicate compliment to Florence, of 
which no man knowing the parties, could possibly miss 
the appreciation. 

Stretched on a crimsoned cushion in his gallant bark, 
with his shoes in the air, Mr. Toots, in the exercise of 
his project, had come up the river, day after day, and 
week after week, and had flitted to and fro, near Sir Bar- 
net’s garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and 
across the river at sharp angles, for his better exhibition 
to any lookers-out from Sir Barnet’s windows, and had had 
such evolutions performed by the Toots’s Delight as had 
filled all the neighboring part of the water-side with as- 
tonishment. But whenever he saw any one in Sir Bar- 
net’s garden on the brink of the river, Mr. Toots always 
feigned to be passing there, by a combination of coinci- 
dences of the most singular and unlikely description. 

“ How are you, Toots ! ” Sir Barnet would say, *wav- 
ing his hand from the lawn, while the artful Chicken 
steered close in shore. 

“ How de do, Sir Barnet ! ” Mr. Toots would answer. 
“ What a surprising thing that I should see you here ? ” 

Mr. Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, 
instead of that being Sir Barnet’s house, it were some 
deserted edifice on the banks of the Nile, or Ganges. 

u I never was so surprised ! ” Mr. Toots would ex- 
claim. — “ Is Miss Dombey there ? ” 

Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps. 

“ Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey,” Mr. 
Toots would cry. “ I called to ask this morning.” 

“ Thank you very much ! ” the pleasant voice of Flor- 
ence would reply. 

“ Won’t you come ashore, Toots ?” Sir Barnet would 


264 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


say then. “ Come ! you’re in no hurry. Come and gee 
us.” 

u Oh it’s of no consequence, thank you ! ” Mr. Toots 
would blusliingly rejoin. “ I thought Miss Dombey 
might like to know, that’s all. Good-by!” And poor 
Mr. Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation, but 
hadn’t the courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with 
an aching heart, and away went the Delight, cleaving 
the water like an arrow. 

The Delight was lying in a state of extraordinary 
splendor, at the garden-steps, on the morning of Flor- 
ence’s departure. When she went down-stairs to take 
leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr. Toots 
awaiting her in the drawing-room. 

“ Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey ? ” said the stricken 
Toots, always dreadfully disconcerted when the desire 
of his heart was gained, and he was speaking to her ; 
“thapk you, I’m very well indeed, I hope you’re the 
same, so was Diogenes yesterday.” 

u You are very kind,” said Florence. 

“ Thank you, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr. 
Toots. “ I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind, in this 
fine weather, coming home by water, Miss Dombey. 
There’s plenty of room in the boat for your maid.” 

“ I am very much obliged to you,” said Florence, hesi- 
tating. “ I really am — but I would rather not.” 

“ Oh, it’s of no consequence,” retorted Mr. Toots. 
u Good-morning ! ” 

“Won’t* you wait and see Lady Skettles?” asked 
Florence, kindly. 

“ Oh no, thank you,” returned Mr. Toots, “ it’s of no 
consequence at all.” 

So shy was Mr. Toots on such occasions, and so flup 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


265 


ried ! But Lady Skettles entering at the moment, Mr. 
Toots was suddenly seized with a passion for asking her 
how she did, and hoping she was very well ; nor could 
Mr. Toots by any possibility leave off shaking hands 
with her, until Sir Barnet appeared : to whom he im- 
mediately clung with the tenacity of desperation. 

“We are losing, to-day, Toots,” said Sir Barnet, turn- 
ing towards Florence, “ the light of our house, I assure 
you.” 

“ Oh, it ? s of no conseq — I mean yes, to be sure,” fal- 
tered the embarrassed Toots. “ GooD-morning ! ” 

Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, 
Mr. Toots, instead of going away, stood leering about 
him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve him, bade adieu, 
with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm 
to Sir Barnet. 

“ May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey,” said her 
host, as he conducted her to the carriage, “ to present 
my best compliments to your dear papa ? ” 

It was distressing to Florence to receive the commis- 
sion, for she felt as if she were imposing on Sir Barnet, 
by allowing him to believe that a kindness rendered to 
her, was rendered to her father. As she could not ex- 
plain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him ; 
and again she thought that the dull home, free from such 
embarrassments, and such reminders of her sorrow, was 
her natural and best retreat. 

Such of her late friends and companions as were yet re- 
maining at the villa, came running from within, and from 
the garden, to say good-by. They were all attached 
to her, and very earnest in taking leave of her. Even 
die household were sorry for her going, and the ser- 
vants came nodding and courtesying round the carriage* 


266 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


door. As Florence looked round on the kind faces, and 
saw among them those of Sir Bainet and his lady, and 
of Mr. Toots, who was chuckling and staring at her 
from a distance, she was reminded of the night when 
Paul and she had come from Doctor Blimber’s : and 
when the carriage drove away, her face was wet with 
tears. 

Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too ; for all 
the softer memories connected with the dull old house to 
which she was returning made it dear to her, as they 
rose up. How long it seemed since she had wandered 
through the silent rooms : since she had last crept, softly 
and afraid, into those her father occupied : since she had 
felt the solemn but yet soothing influence of the beloved 
dead in every action of her daily life ! This new fare- 
well reminded her, besides, of her parting with poor 
Walter : of his looks and words that night : and of the 
gracious blending she had noticed in him, of tender- 
ness for those he left behind, with courage and high 
spirit. His little history was associated with the old 
house too, and gave it a new claim and hold upon her 
heart. 

Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home of so 
many years, as they were on their way towards it. 
Gloomy as it was, and rigid justice as she rendered to 
its gloom, she forgave it a great deal. “ I shall be glad 
to see it again, I don’t deny, miss,” said the Nipper. 
“ There a’n’t much in it to boast of, but I wouldn’t have 
it burnt or pulled down, neither ! ” 

45 You’ll be glad to go through the old rooms, won’t 
you, Susan ? ” said Florence, smiling. 

“ Well, miss,” returned the Nipper, softening more 
and more towards the house, as they approached it 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


267 


nearer, “ 1 won’t deny but what I shall, though I shall 
hate ’em again, to-morrow, very likely.” 

Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace 
within it than elsewhere. It was better and easier to 
keep her secret shut up there, among the tall dark walls, 
than to carry it abroad into the light, and try to hide it 
from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue 
the study of her loving heart, alone, and find no new 
discouragements in loving hearts about her. It was 
easier to hope, and pray, and love on, all uncared for, 
yet with constancy and patience, in the tranquil sanc- 
tuary of such remembrances : although it mouldered, 
rusted, and decayed about her : than in a new scene, let 
its gayety be what it would. She welcomed back her 
old enchanted dream of life, and longed for the old dark 
door to close upon her, once again. 

Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and 
sombre street. Florence was not on that side of the 
carriage which was nearest to her home, and as the dis- 
tance lessened between them and it, she looked out of 
her window for the children over the way. 

She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from 
Susan caused her to turn quickly round. 

“ Why gracious me ! ” cried Susan, breathless, “ where’s 
our house ! ” 

“ Our house ! ” said Florence. 

Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust 
it out again, drew it in again as the carriage stopped, and 
stared at her mistress in amazement. 

There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round 
the house, from the basement to the roof. Loads of 
bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar, and piles of 
wood, blocked up half the width and length of the broad 


268 


DOMBEY AND SCN. 


street at the side. Ladders were raised against the 
walls : laborers were climbing up and down*; men were 
at work upon the steps of the scaffolding ; painters and 
decorators were busy inside ; great rolls of ornamental 
paper were being delivered from a cart at the door ; an 
upholsterer’s wagon also stopped the way ; no furniture 
was to be seen through the gaping and broken windows 
in any of the rooms ; nothing but workmen, and the 
implements of their several trades, swarming from the 
kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike : brick- 
layers, painters, carpenters, masons : hammer, hod, brush, 
pickaxe, saw, and trowel : all at work together, in full 
chorus ! 

Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if 
it were, or could be the right house, until she recognized 
Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face, standing at the door te 
receive her. 

“ There is nothing the matter?” inquired Florence. 

“ Oh, no, miss.” 

“ There are great alterations going on.” 

“ Yes, miss, great alterations,” said Towlinson. 

Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and 
hurried up-stairs. The garish light was in the long- 
darkened drawing-room, and there were steps and plat- 
forms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her 
mother’s picture was gone with the rest of the mov- 
ables, and on the mark where it had been, was scrawled 
in chalk, “ this room in panel. Green and gold.” The 
staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the 
outside of the house, and a whole Olympus of plumbers 
and glaziers was reclining in various attitudes, on the 
skylight. Her own room was not yet touched within, 
but there were beams and boards raised against it with- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


269 


out, balking the daylight. She went up swiftly to that 
other bedroom, where the little bed was; and a dark 
giant of a man with a pipe in his mouth, and his head 
tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, was staring in at the 
window. 

It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in ques 
of Florence, found her, and said, would she go down- 
stairs to her papa, who wished to speak to her. 

“ At home ! and wishing to speak to me ! ” cried Flor- 
ence, trembling. 

Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Flor- 
ence herself, repeated her errand; and Florence, pale 
and agitated, hurried down again, without a moment’s 
hesitation. She thought upon the way down, would she 
dare to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved 
her, and she thought she would. 

Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it 
came into his presence. One instant, and it would have 
beat against his breast — 

But he was not alone. There were two ladies there ; 
and Florence stopped. Striving so hard with her emo- 
tion, that if her brute friend Di had not burst in and 
overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home 
— at which one of the ladies gave a little scream, and 
that diverted her attention from herself — she would 
have swooned upon the floor. 

“ Florence,” said her father, putting out his hand ; so 
stiffly that it held her off : “ how do you do ? ” 

Florence took the hand between her own, and putting 
it timidly to her lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It 
touched the door in shutting it, with quite as much 
endearment as it had touched her. 

“ What dog is that ? ” said Mr. Dombey, displeased. 


270 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ It is a dog, papa — from Brighton.” 

u Well ! ” said Mr. Dombey ; and a cloud passed ovei 
his face, for he understood her. 

“ He is very good-tempered,” said Florence, address- 
ing herself with her natural grace and sweetness to the 
two lady strangers. “ He is only glad to see me. Pray 
forgive him.” 

She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the 
lady who had screamed, and who was seated, was old 
and that the other lady, who stood near her papa, was 
very beautiful, and of an elegant figure. 

4 ‘ Mrs. Skewton,” said her father, turning to the first, 
and holding out his hand, “ this is my daughter Flor- 
ence.” 

“ Charming, I am sure,” observed the lady, putting up 
her glass. “ So natural ! My darling Florence, you 
must kiss me, if you please.” 

Florence having done so, turned towards the other 
lady, by whom her father stood waiting. 

“ Edith,” said Mr. Dombey, “ this is my daughter 
Florence. Florence, this lady will soon be your mama.” 

Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face 
in a conflict of emotions, among which the tears that 
name awakened, struggled for a moment with surprise, 
interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of fear. 
Then she cried out, “ Oh, papa, may you be happy ! 
may you be very, very happy all your life ! ” and then 
fell weeping on the lady’s bosom. 

There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who 
at first had seemed to hesitate whether or no she should 
advance to Florence, held her to her breast, and pressed 
the hand with which she clasped her, close about her 
waist, as if to reassure her and comfort her. Not ore 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


271 


word passed the lady’s lips. She bent her head down 
over Florence, and she kissed her on the cheek, but she 
said no word. 

“ Shall we go on through the rooms,” said Mr. Dom- 
bey, “ and see how our workmen are doing ? Pray al- 
low me, my dear madam.” 

He said this in offering his arm to Mrs. Skewton, 
who had been looking at Florence through her glass, as 
though picturing to herself what she might be made, by 
the infusion — from her own copious storehouse, no 
doubt — of a little more Heart and Nature. Florence 
was still sobbing on the lady’s breast, and holding to her, 
when Mr. Dombey was heard to say from the conser- 
vatory : 

“ Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she ? ” 

“ Edith, my dear ! ” cried Mrs. Skewton, “ where are 
you ? Looking for Mr. Dombey somewhere, I know. 
We are here, my love.” 

The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and 
pressing her lips once more upon her face, withdrew 
hurriedly, and joined them. Florence remained stand- 
ing in the same place : happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears, 
she knew not how or how long, but all at once : when 
her new mama came back, and took her in her arms 
again. 

“ Florence,” said the lady hurriedly, and looking into 
her face with great earnestness. “ You will not begin 
by hating me ? ” 

u By hating you, mama ! ” cried Florence, winding her 
arm round her neck, and returning the look. 

“ Hush ! Begin by thinking well of me,” said the beau- 
tiful lady. “ Begin by believing that I will try to make 
you happy, and that I am prepared to love you, Flor 


272 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ence. Good-by. We shall meet again, soon. Good-by ! 
Don't stay here, now.” 

Again she pressed her to her breast — she had spoken 
in a rapid manner, but firmly — and Florence saw her 
rejoin them in the other room. 

And now Florence began to hope that she would learn 
from her new and beautiful mama, how to gain her 
father’s love ; and in her sleep that night, in her lost old 
home, her own mama smiled radiantly upon the hope, 
and blessed it. Dreaming Florence ! 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


273 


✓ 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE OPENING OF THE EYES OF MRS. CHICK. 

Miss Tox, all unconscious of any such rare appear- 
ances in connection with Mr. Dombey’s house, as scaf- 
foldings and ladders, and men with their heads tied up 
in pocket-handkerchiefs, glaring in at the windows like 
flying genii or strange birds, — having breakfasted one 
morning at about this eventful period of time, on her 
customary viands : to wit, one French roll rasped, one 
egg new laid (or warranted to be), and one little pot of 
tea, wherein was infused one little silver scoop-full of 
that herb on behalf of Miss Tox, and one little silver 
scoop-full on behalf of the teapot — a flight of fancy in 
which good house-keepers delight ; went up-stairs to set 
forth the bird waltz on the harpsichord, to water and ar- 
range the plants, to dust the knick-knacks, and accord- 
ing to her daily custom, to make her little drawing-room 
the garland of Princess’s-place. 

Miss Tox endued herself with the pair of ancient 
gloves, like dead leaves, in which she was accustomed 
to perform these avocations — hidden from human sight 
at other times in a table-drawer — and went methodically 
to work ; beginning with the bird waltz ; passing, by a 
natural association of ideas, to her bird — a very high- 
shouldered canary, stricken in years, and much rumpled, 
but a piercing singer, as Princess’s-place well knew; 

VOL. II. 18 


274 


D0M13EY AND SON. 


taking, next in order, the little china ornaments, paper 
fly-cages, and so forth ; and coming round, in good time, 
to the plants, which generally required to be snipped 
here and there with a pair of scissors, for some botanical 
reason that was very powerful with Miss Tox. 

Miss Tox was slow in coming to the plants, this morn- 
ing. The weather was warm, the wind southerly ; and 
there was a sigh of the summer time in Princess’s-place, 
that turned Miss Tox’s thoughts upon the country. The 
pot-boy attached to the Princess’s Arms had come out 
with a can and trickled water, in a flowing pattern, all 
over Princess’s-place, and it gave the weedy ground a 
fresh scent — quite a growing scent, Miss Tox said. 
There was a tiny blink of sun peeping in from the 
great street round the corner, and the smoky spar- 
rows hopped over it and back again, brightening as they 
passed : or bathed in it like a stream, and became glori- 
fied sparrows, unconnected with chimneys. Legends in 
praise of Ginger Beer, with pictorial representations of 
thirsty customers submerged in the effervescence, or 
stunned by the flying corks, were conspicuous in the 
window of the Princess’s Arms. They were making 
late hay, somewhere out of town ; and though the fra- 
grance had a long way to come, and many counter fra- 
grances to contend with among the dwellings of the poor 
(may God reward the worthy gentlemen who stickle for 
the plague as part and parcel of the wisdom of our an- 
cestors, and who do their little best to keep those dwell- 
ings miserable !), yet it was wafted faintly into Prin- 
cess’s-place, whispering of nature and her wholesome 
air, as such things will, even unto prisoners and cap- 
tives, and those who are desolate and oppressed. 

Miss Tox sat down upon the window-seat, and thought 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


275 


of her good papa deceased — Mr. Tox, of the Customs 
Department of the public service ; and of her childhood, 
passed at a seaport, among a considerable quantity of 
cold tar, and some rusticity. She fell into a softened 
remembrance of meadows in old time, gleaming with 
buttercups, like so many inverted firmaments of golden 
stars ; and how she had made chains of dandelion-stalks 
for youthful vowers of eternal constancy, dressed chiefly 
in nankeen ; and how soon those fetters had withered and 
broken. 

Sitting on the window-seat, and looking out upon the 
sparrows and the blink of sun, Miss Tox thought like- 
wise of her good mama deceased — sister to the owner 
of the powdered head and pigtail — of her virtues, and 
her rheumatism. And when a man with bulgy legs, and 
a rough voice, and a heavy basket on his head that 
crushed his hat into a mere black muffin, came crying 
flowers down Princess’s-place, making his timid little 
roots of daisies shudder in the vibration of every yell 
he gave,, as though he had been an ogre hawking little 
children, summer recollections were so strong upon Miss 
Tox, that she shook her head, and murmured she would 
be comparatively old before she knew it — which seemed 
likely. 

In her pensive mood, Miss Tox’s thoughts went wan- 
dering on Mr. Dombey’s track ; probably because the 
major had returned home to his lodgings opposite, and 
had just bowed to her from his window. What other 
reason could Miss Tox have for connecting Mr. Dombey 
with her summer days and dandelion fetters ? Was he 
more cheerful ? thought Miss Tox. Was he reconciled 
to the decrees of fate? Would he ever marry again, 
and if yes, whom ? What sort of person now ! 


276 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


A flush — it was warm weather — overspread Miss 
Tox’s face, as, while entertaining these meditations, she 
turned her head, and was surprised by the reflection of 
her thoughtful image in the chimney-glass. Another 
flush succeeded when she saw a little carriage drive 
into Princess’s-place, and make straight for her own 
door. Miss Tox arose, took up her scissors hastily, and 
so coming, at last, to the plants, was very busy with 
them when Mrs. Chick entered the room. 

“ How is my sweetest friend ! ” exclaimed Miss Tox, 
with open arms. 

A little stateliness was mingled with Miss Tox’s 
sweetest friend’s demeanor, but she kissed Miss Tox, 
and said, “ Lucretia, thank you, I am pretty well. I 
hope you are the same. Hem ! ” 

Mrs. Chick was laboring under a peculiar little mon- 
osyllabic cough ; a sort of primer, or easy introduction 
to the art of coughing. 

“ You call very early, and how kind that is, my 
dear ! ” pursued Miss Tox. “ Now have you break- 
fasted ? ” 

“ Thank you, Lucretia,” said Mrs. Chick, “ I have. 
I took an early breakfast ” — the good lady seemed 
curious on the subject of Princess’s-place, and looked 
all round it as she spoke, u with my brother, who has 
come home.” 

“ He is better, I trust, my love,” faltered Miss Tox. 

“ He is greatly better, thank you. Hem ! ” 

“ My dear Louisa must be careful of that cough,” 
remarked Miss Tox. 

“ It’s nothing,” returned Mrs. Chick. “ It’s merely 
change of weather. We must expect change.” 

u Of weather ? ” asked Miss Tox, in her simplicity. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


277 


u Of everything,” returned Mrs. Chick. “Of course 
we must. It’s a world of change. Any one would 
surprise me very much, Lucretia, and would greatly 
alter my opinion of their understanding, if they at- 
tempted to contradict or evade what is so perfectly evi- 
dent. Change ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Chick, with severe 
philosophy. “ Why, my gracious me, what is there 
that does not change ! even the silkworm, who I am 
sure might be supposed not to trouble itself about such 
subjects, changes into all sorts of unexpected things 
continually.” 

“ My Louisa,” said the mild Miss Tox, “ is ever 
happy in her illustrations.” 

“ You are so kind, Lucretia,” returned Mrs. Chick, a 
little softened, “ as to say so, and to think so, I believe. 
I hope neither of us may ever have any cause to lessen 
our opinion of the other, Lucretia.” 

“ I am sure of it,” returned Miss Tox. 

Mrs. Chick coughed as before, and drew lines on the 
carpet with the ivory end of her parasol. Miss Tox, 
who had experience of her fair friend, and knew that 
under the pressure of any slight fatigue or vexation she 
was prone to a discursive kind of irritability, availed 
herself of the pause to change the subject. 

“ Pardon me, my dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “ but 
have I caught sight of the manly form of Mr. Chick in 
the carriage ? ” 

“ He is there,” said Mrs. Chick, “ but pray leave 
him there. He has his newspaper, and would be quite 
contented for the next two hours. Go on with your 
flowers, Lucretia, and allow me to sit here and rest.” 

“ My Louisa knows,” observed Miss Tox, “ that be- 
tween friends like ourselves, any approach to ceremony 


278 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


would be out of the question. Therefore ” — There- 
fore Miss Tox finished the sentence, not in words but 
action ; and putting on her gloves again, which she had 
taken off, and arming herself once more with her scis- 
sors, began to snip and clip among the leaves with mi- 
croscopic industry. 

“ Florence has returned home also,” said Mrs. Chick, 
after sitting silent for some time, with her head on one 
side, and her parasol sketching on the floor ; “ and really 
Florence is a great deal too old now, to continue to lead 
that solitary life to which she has been accustomed. Of 
course she is. There can be no doubt about it. I should 
have very little respect, indeed, for anybody who could 
advocate a different opinion. Whatever my wishes might 
be, I could not respect them. We cannot command our 
feelings to such an extent as that.” 

Miss Tox assented, without being particular as to the 
intelligibility of the proposition. 

“ If she’s a strange girl,” said Mrs. Chick, “ and if 
my brother Paul cannot feel perfectly comfortable in 
her society, after all the sad things that have happened, 
and all the terrible disappointments that have been un- 
dergone, then, what is the reply ? That he must make 
an effort. That he is bound to make an effort. We 
have always been a family remarkable for effort. Paul 
is at the head of the family ; almost the only repre- 
sentative left — for what am I — 1 am of no conse- 
quence ” — 

“ My dearest love,” remonstrated Miss Tox. 

Mrs. Chick dried her eyes, which were, for the mo- 
ment, overflowing ; and proceeded : 

A And consequently he is more than ever bound to 
make an effort. And though his having done so, comes 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


279 


upon me with a sort of shock — for mine is a very weak 
and foolish nature ; which is anything but a blessing I 
am sure ; I often w T ish my heart was a marble slab, or 
a paving-stone ” — 

“My sweet Louisa,” remonstrated Miss Tox again. 

“ Still, it is a triumph to me to know that he is so 
true to himself, and to his name of Dombey ; although 
of course, I always knew he would be. I only hope,” 
said Mrs. Chick, after a pause, “ that she may be wor- 
thy of the name too.” 

Miss Tox filled a little green watering-pot from a jug, 
and happening to look up when she had done so, was so 
surprised by the amount of expression Mrs. Chick had 
conveyed into her face, and was bestowing upon her, 
that she put the little watering-pot on the table for the 
present, and sat down near it. 

“ My dear Louisa,” said Miss Tox, “ will it be the 
least satisfaction to you, if I venture to observe in ref- 
erence to that remark, that I, as a humble individual, 
think your sweet niece in every way most promising!” 

“ What do you mean, Lucretia ? ” returned Mrs. 
Chick, with increased stateliness of manner. “To what 
remark of mine, my dear, do you refer ? ” 

“ Her being worthy of her name, my love,” replied 
Miss Tox. 

“ If/ said Mrs. Chick, with solemn patience, “ I have 
not expressed myself with clearness, Lucretia, the fault 
of course is mine. There is, perhaps, no reason why I 
should express myself at all, except the intimacy that 
has subsisted between us, and which I very much hope, 
Lucretia — confidently hope — nothing will occur to dis- 
turb. Because, why should I do anything else ? There 
is no reason ; it would be absurd. But I wish to ex- 


280 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


press myself clearly, Lucretia ; and therefore to go back 
to that remark, I must beg to say that it was not intended 
to relate to Florence in any way.” 

“ Indeed ! ” returned Miss Tox. 

“ No,” said Mrs. Chick shortly and decisively. 

“ Pardon me, my dear,” rejoined her meek friend ; 
“ but I cannot have understood it. I fear I am dull.” 

Mrs. Chick looked round the room and over the way ; 
at the plants, at the bird, at the watering-pot, at almost 
everything within view, except Miss Tox ; and finally 
dropping her glance upon Miss Tox, for a moment, on 
its way to the ground, said, looking meanwhile with ele- 
vated eyebrows at the carpet: 

“ When I speak, Lucretia, of her being worthy of the 
name, I speak of my brother Paul’s second wife. I be- 
lieve I have already said, in effect, if not in the very 
words I now use, that it is his intention to marry a 
second wife.” 

Miss Tox left her seat in a hurry, and returned to 
her plants ; clipping among the stems and leaves with 
as little favor as a barber working at so many pauper 
heads of hair. 

“ Whether she will be fully sensible of the distinction 
conferred upon her,” said Mrs. Chick, in a lofty tone, “ is 
quite another question. I hope she may be. We are 
bound to think well of one another in this world, and I 
hope she may be. I have not been advised with, my- 
elf. If I had been advised with, I have no doubt my 
advice would have been cavalierly received, and there- 
fore it is infinitely better as it is. I much prefer it as 
it is.” 

Miss Tox, with head bent down, still clipped among 
the plants. Mrs. Chick, with energetic shakings of her 


DOMBET VND SON. 


281 


awn head from time to time, continued to hold forth, as 
if in defiance of somebody. 

“ If my brother Paul had consulted with me, which he 
sometimes does — or rather, sometimes used to do ; for 
he will naturally do that no more now, and this is a cir- 
cumstance which I regard as a relief from responsibil- 
ity, ” said Mrs. Chick, hysterically, “ for I thank Heaven 
I am not jealous ” — here Mrs. Chick again shed tears : 
“if my brother Paul had come to. me, and had said* 
4 Louisa, what kind of qualities would you advise me to 
look out for, in a wife ? ’ I should certainly have an- 
swered, 4 Paul, you must have family, you must have 
beauty, you must have dignity, you must have connec- 
tion/ Those are the words I should have used. You 
might have led me to the block immediately afterwards,” 
said Mrs. Chick, as if that consequence were highly 
probable, “but I should have used them. I should have 
said, 4 Paul ! You to marry a second time without 
family ! You to marry without beauty ! You to marry 
without dignity ! You to marry without connection ! 
There is nobody in the world, not mad, who could dream 
of daring to entertain such a preposterous idea ! ’ ” 

Miss Tox stopped clipping ; and with her head among 
the plants, listened attentively. Perhaps Miss Tox 
thought there was hope in this exordium, and in the 
warmth of Mrs. Chick. 

44 1 should have adopted this course of argument,” 
pursued the discreet lady, 44 because I trust I am not a 
fool. I make no claim to be considered a person of 
superior intellect — though I believe some people have 
been extraordinary enough to consider me so ; one so 
little humored as I am, would very soon be disabused of* 
any such notion ; but I trust I am not a downright fool 


282 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


And to tell me,” said Mrs. Chick with ineffable disdain, 
u that my brother Paul Dombey could ever contemplate 
the possibility of uniting himself to anybody — I don’t 
care who ” — she was more sharp and emphatic in that 
short clause than in any other part of her discourse — 
“ not possessing these requisites, would be to insult what 
understanding I have got, as much as if I was to be told 
that I was born and bred an elephant. Which I may 
be told next,” said Mrs. Chick, with resignation. “ It 
wouldn’t surprise me at all. I expect it.” 

In the moment’s silence that ensued, Miss Tox’s scis- 
sors gave a feeble clip or two; but Miss Tox’s face was 
still invisible, and Miss Tox’s morning gown was agi- 
tated. Mrs. Chick looked sideways at her, through the 
intervening plants, and went on to say, in a tone of 
bland conviction, and as one dwelling on a point of fact 
that hardly required to be stated : 

“ Therefore, of course my brother Paul has done what 
was to be expected of him, and what anybody might have 
foreseen he would do, if he entered the marriage state 
again. I confess it takes me rather by surprise, how- 
ever gratifying ; because when Paul went out of town I 
had no idea at all that he would form any attachment 
out of town, and he certainly had no attachment when 
he left here. However, it seems to be extremely desir- 
able in every point of view. I have no doubt the mother 
is a most genteel and elegant creature, and I have no 
right whatever to dispute the policy of her living with 
them : which is Paul’s affair, not mine — and as to 
Paul’s choice, herself, I have only seen her picture yet, 
but that is beautiful indeed. Her name is beautiful too,” 
said Mrs. Chick, shaking her head with energy, and ar 
ranging herself in her chair ; “ Edith is at once uncom- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


288 


mon, as it strikes me, and distinguished. Consequently, 
Lucretia, I have no doubt } r ou will be happy to hear 
that the marriage is to take place immediately — of 
course, you will : ” great emphasis again : “ and that 
you are delighted with this change in the condition of 
my brother, who has shown you a great deal of pleasant 
attention at various times.” 

Miss Tox made no verbal answer, but took up tho 
little watering-pot with a trembling hand, and looked 
vacantly round as if considering what article of furniture 
would be improved by the contents. The room-door 
opening at this crisis of Miss Tox’s feelings, she started, 
laughed aloud, and fell into the arms of the person en- 
tering ; happily insensible alike of Mrs. Chick’s indig- 
nant countenance, and of the major at his window over 
the way, who had his double-barrelled eye-glass in full 
action, and whose face and figure were dilated with 
Mephistophelean joy. 

Not so the expatriated native, amazed supporter of 
Miss Tox’s swooning form, who, coming straight up- 
stairs, with a polite inquiry touching Miss Tox’s health 
(in exact pursuance of the major’s malicious instruc- 
tions), had accidentally arrived in the very nick of time 
to catch the delicate burden in his arms, and to receive 
the contents of the little watering-pot in his shoe ; both 
of which circumstances, coupled with his consciousness 
of being closely watched by the wrathful major, who had 
threatened the usual penalty in regard of every bone in 
his skin in case of any failure, combined to render him a 
moving spectacle of mental and bodily distress. 

For some moments, this afflicted foreigner remained 
clasping Miss Tox to his heart, with an energy of action 
in remarkable opposition to his disconcerted face, while 


284 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that poor lady trickled slowly down upon him the very 
last sprinklings of the little watering-pot, as if he were a 
delicate exotic (which indeed he was), and might be al- 
most expected to blow while the gentle rain descended. 
Mrs. Chick, at length recovering sufficient presence of 
mind to interpose, commanded him to drop Miss Tox 
upon the sofa and withdraw ; and the exile promptly 
obeying, she applied herself to promote Miss Tox’s re- 
covery. 

But none of that gentle concern which usually charac- 
terizes the daughters of Eve in their tending of each 
other; none of that freemasonry in fainting, by which 
they are generally bound together in a mysterious bond 
of sisterhood ; was visible in Mrs. Chick’s demeanor. 
Rather like the executioner who restores the victim to 
sensation previous to proceeding with the torture (or 
was wont to do so, in the good old times for which all 
true men wear perpetual mourning), did Mrs. Chick 
administer the smelling-bottle, the slapping on the hands, 
the dashing of cold water on the face, and the other 
proved remedies. And when, at length, Miss Tox 
opened her eyes, and gradually became restored to ani- 
mation and consciousness, Mrs. Chick drew off as from a 
criminal, and reversing the precedent of the murdered 
king of Denmark, regarded her more in anger than in 
sorrow. 

“ Lucretia ! ” said Mrs. Chick. “ I will not attempt 
to disguise what I feel. My eyes are opened, all at 
once. I wouldn’t have believed this, if a saint had told 
it to me.” 

“ I am foolish to give way to faintness,” Miss Tox 
faltered. “ I shall be better presently.” 

“ You will be better presently, Lucretia ! ” repeated 


DOMBE* AND SON. 


285 


Mrs. Chick, with exceeding scorn. “ Do you suppose 
I am blind ? Do you imagine I am in my second child- 
hood ? No, Lucretia ! I am obliged to you ! ” 

Miss Tox directed an imploring, helpless kind of look 
towards her friend, and put her handkerchief before her 
face. 

“If any one had told me this yesterday,” said Mrs. 
Chick with majesty, “ or even half an hour ago, I should 
have been tempted, I almost believe, to strike them to 
the earth. Lucretia Tox, my eyes are opened to you all 
at once. The scales : ” here Mrs. Chick cast down an 
imaginary pair, such as are commonly used in grocers’ 
shops : “ have fallen from my sight. The blindness of 
my confidence is past, Lucretia. It has been abused and 
played upon, and evasion is quite out of the question 
now, I assure you.” 

“ Oh ! to what do you allude so cruelly, my love ? ” 
asked Miss Tox, through her tears. 

“ Lucretia,” said Mrs. Chick, “ ask your own heart. 
I must entreat you not to address me by any such famil- 
iar term as you have just used, if you please. I have 
some self-respect left, though you may think otherwise.” 

“ Oh, Louisa ! ” cried Miss Tox. “ How can you 
speak to me like that ? ” 

“ How can I speak to you like that ? ” retorted Mrs. 
Chick, who, in default of having any particular argu- 
ment to sustain herself upon, relied principally on such 
repetitions for her most withering effects. “ Like that ! 
You may well say like that, indeed ! ” 

Miss Tox sobbed pitifully. 

“The idea !” said Mrs. Chick, “ot your having basked 
at my brother’s fireside, like a serpent, and wound your- 
self, through me, almost into his confidence, Lucretia, 


286 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that you might, in secret, entertain designs upon him, 
and dare to aspire to contemplate the possibility of his 
uniting himself to you! Why, it is an idea,” said Mrs. 
Chick with sarcastic dignity, “ the absurdity of which 
almost relieves its treachery.” 

“ Pray, Louisa,” urged Miss Tox, “ do not say such 
dreadful things.” 

“ Dreadful things ! ” repeated Mrs. Chick. “ Dread- 
ful things! Is it not a fact, Lucretia, that you have just 
now been unable to command your feelings even before 
me, whose eyes you had so completely closed ? ” 

“ I have made no complaint,” sobbed Miss Tox. “ I 
have said nothing. If I have been a little overpow- 
ered by your news, Louisa, and have ever had any 
lingering thought that Mr. Dombey was inclined to be 
particular towards me, surely you will not condemn me.” 

“ She is going to say,” said Mrs. Chick, addressing 
herself to the whole of the furniture, in a comprehen- 
sive glance of resignation and appeal, “ She is going to 
say — I know it — that I have encouraged her ! ” 

“ I don't wish to exchange reproaches, dear Louisa,” 
sobbed Miss Tox. “ Nor do I wish to complain. But, 
in my own defence ” — 

“ Yes,” cried Mrs. Chick, looking round the room 
with a prophetic smile, “ that's what she’s going to say. 
I knew it. ^Tou had better say it. Say it openly ! Be 
open, Lucretia Tox,” said Mrs. Chick, with desperate 
sternness, “ whatever you are.” 

“ In my own defence,” faltered Miss Tox, 4 and only 
in my own defence against your unkind words, my dear 
Louisa, I would merely ask you if you haven’t often 
favored such a fancy, and even said it might happen, 
for anything we could tell ?” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


287 


“ There is a point,” said Mrs. Chick, rising, not as if 
she were going to stop at the floor, but as if she were 
about to soar up, high, into her native skies, “ beyond 
which endurance becomes ridiculous, if not culpable. I 
can bear much ; but not too much. What spell was on 
me when I . came into this house this day, I don’t know ; 
but I had a presentiment — a dark presentiment,” said 
Mrs. Chick, with a shiver, “ that something was going to 
happen. Well may I have had that foreboding, Lucre- 
tia, when my confidence of many years is destroyed in an 
instant, when my eyes are opened all at once, and when 
I find you revealed in your true colors. Lucretia, I 
have been mistaken in you. It is better for us both 
that this subject should end here. I wish you well, and 
I shall ever wish you well. But, as an individual who 
desires to be true to herself in her own poor position, 
whatever that position may be, or may not be — and as 
the sister of my brother — and as the sister-in-law of 
my brother’s wife — and as a connection by marriage 
of my brother’s wife’s mother — may I be permitted to 
add, as a Dombey ? — I can wish you nothing else but 
good-morning.” 

These words, delivered with cutting suavity, tempered 
and chastened by a lofty air of moral rectitude, carried 
the speaker to the door. There she inclined her head 
in a ghostly and statue-like manner, and so withdrew to 
her carriage, to seek comfort and consolation in the arms 
of Mr. Chick her lord. 

Figuratively speaking, that is to say ; for the arms of 
Mr. Chick were full of his newspaper. Neither did 
that gentleman address his eyes towards his wife other- 
wise than by stealth. Neither did he offer any consola- 
tion whatever. In short, he sat reading, and humming 


288 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


fag ends of tunes, and sometimes glancing furtively at 
her without delivering himself of word, good, bad, of 
indifferent. 

In the mean time Mrs. Chick set swelling and bri- 
dling, and tossing her head, as if she were still repeat- 
ing that solemn formula of farewell to Lucretia Tox. 
At length, she said aloud, “ Oh the extent to which her 
eyes had been opened that day ! ” 

“ To which your eyes have been opened, my dear ! ” 
repeated Mr. Chick. 

“ Oh, don’t talk to me ! ” said Mrs. Chick. “ If you 
can bear to see me in this state, and not ask me what 
the matter is, you had better hold your tongue forever.” 

“ What is the matter, my dear ? ” asked Mr. Chick. 

“ To think,” said Mrs. Chick, in a state of soliloquy, 
“ that she should ever have conceived the base idea of 
connecting herself with our family by a marriage with 
Paul ! To think that when she was playing at horses 
with that dear child who is now in his grave — I never 
liked it at the time — she should have been hiding such 
a double-faced design ! I wonder she was never afraid 
that something would happen to her. She is fortunate 
if nothing does.” 

“ I really thought, my dear,” said Mr. Chick slowly, 
after rubbing the bridge of his nose for some time with 
his newspaper, “ that you had gone on the same tack 
yourself, all along, until this morning ; and had thougnt 
it would be a convenient thing enough, if it could have 
been brought about.” 

Mrs. Chick instantly burst into tears, and told Mr. 
Chick that if he wished to trample upon her with his 
boots, he had better do it. 

“ But with Lucretia Tox I have done,” said Mrs* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


28 y 

Chick, after abandoning herself to her feelings for some 
minutes, to Mr. Chick’s great terror. “I can bear to 
resign Paul’s confidence in favor of one who, I hope and 
trust, may be deserving of it, and with whom he has a 
perfect right to replace poor Fanny if he chooses ; I can 
bear to be informed, in Paul’s cool manner, of such a 
change in his plans, and. never to be consulted until all is 
settled and determined ; but deceit I can not bear, and 
with Lucretia Tox I have done. It is better as it is,” 
said Mrs. Chick, piously ; u much better. It would have 
been a long time before I could have accommodated my- 
self comfortably with her, after this ; and I really don’t 
know, as Paul is going to be very grand, and these are 
people of condition, that she would have been quite 
presentable, and might not have compromised myself. 
There’s a providence in everything; everything works 
for the best ; I have been tried to-day, but, upon the 
whole, I don’t regret it.” 

In which Christian spirit, Mrs. Chick dried her eyes, 
and smoothed her lap, and sat as became a person calm 
under a great wrong. Mr. Chick, feeling his unworthi- 
ness no doubt, took an early opportunity of being set 
down at a street-corner and walking away, whistling, 
with his shoulders very much raised, and his hands in 
his pockets. 

While poor excommunicated Miss Tox, who, if she 
were a fawner and toad-eater, was at least an honest 
and a constant one, and had ever borne a faithful friend- 
ship towards her impeacher, and had been truly absorbed 
and swallowed up in devotion to the magnificence of 
Mr. Dombey — while poor excommunicated Miss Tox 
watered her plants with her tears, and felt that it was 
winter in Princess’s-place. , 

you ir. 19 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


2<*0 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE INTERVAL BEFORE THE MARRIAGE. 

Although the enchanted house was no more, and the 
working world had broken into it, and was hammering 
and crashing and tramping up and down stairs all day 
long, keeping Diogenes in an incessant paroxysm of 
barking from sunrise to sunset — evidently convinced 
that his enemy had got the better of him at last, and 
was then sacking the premises in triumphant defiance — 
there was, at first, no other great change in the method 
of Florence’s life. At night, when the work-people went 
away, the house was dreary and deserted again ; and 
Florence listening to their voices echoing through the 
hall and staircase as they departed, pictured to herself 
the cheerful homes to which they were returning, and 
the children who were waiting for them, and was glad 
to think that they were merry and well pleased to 
go. 

She welcomed back the evening silence as an cld 
friend, but it came now with an altered face, and looked 
more kindly on her. Fresh hope was in it. The beau- 
tiful lady who had soothed and caressed her, in the very 
room in which her heart had been so wrung, was a spirit 
of promise to her. Soft shadows of the bright life 
dawning, when her father’s affection should be gradually 
^on, and all, or much should be restored, of what she 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


291 


had lost on the dark day when a mother’s love had faded 
with a mother’s last breath on her cheek, moved about 
her in the twilight and were welcome company. Peep- 
ing at the rosy children her neighbors, it was a new and 
precious sensation to think that they might soon speak 
together and know each other : when she would not fear 
as of old, to show herself before them, lest they should 
be grieved to see her in her black dress sitting there 
alone ! 

In her thoughts of her new mother, and in the love 
and trust overflowing her pure heart towards her, Flor- 
ence loved her own dead mother more and more. She 
had no fear of setting up a rival in her breast. The 
new flower sprang from the deep-planted and long-cher- 
ished root, she knew. Every gentle word that had fall- 
en from the lips of the beautiful lady, sounded to Flor- 
ence like an echo of the voice long hushed and silent. 
How could she love that memory less for living tender- 
ness, when it was her memory of all parental tenderness 
and love ! 

Florence was, one day, sitting reading in her room, 
and thinking of the lady and her promised visit soon — 
for her book turned on a kindred subject — when, rais- 
ing her eyes, she saw her standing in the door-way. 

“ Mama ! ” cried Florence, joyfully meeting her. 
u Come again ! ” 

“ Not mama yet,” returned the lady, with a serious 
smile, as she encircled Florence’s neck with her arm. 

“ But very soon to be,” cried Florence. 

“ Very soon now, Florence: very soon.” 

Edith bent her head a little so as to press the bloom- 
ing cheek of Florence against her own, and for some 
few moments remained thus silent. There was some* 


292 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


thing so very tender in her manner, that Florence was 
even more sensible of it than on the first occasion of 
their meeting. 

She led Florence to a chair beside her, and sat down : 
Florence looking in her face, quite wondering at its 
beauty, and willingly leaving her hand in hers. 

“ Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here 
last ? ” 

“ Oh yes ! ” smiled Florence, hastily. 

She hesitated and cast down her eyes ; for her new 
mama was very earnest in her look, and the look was 
intently and thoughtfully fixed upon her face. 

“I — I — am used to be alone,” said Florence. “ I 
don’t mind it at all. Di and I pass whole days together, 
sometimes.” Florence might have said whole weeks, 
and months. 

“ Is Di your maid, love ? ” 

“ My dog, mama,” said Florence, laughing. “ Susan 
is my maid.” 

“ And these are your rooms,” said Edith, looking 
round. “ I was not shown these rooms the other day. 
We must have them improved, Florence. They shall 
be made the prettiest in the house.” 

“ If I might change them, mama,” returned Florence ; 
114 there is one up-stairs I should like much better.” 

“ Is this not high enough, dear girl ? ” asked Edith, 
smiling. 

“ The other was my brother’s room,” said Florence, 
“ and I am very fond of it. I would have spoken to 
papa about it when I came home, and found tbe work- 
men here, and everything changing ; but ” — 

Florence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should 
make her falter again. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


293 


— “but I was afraid it might distress him; and as 
you said you would be here again soon, mama, and are 
the mistress of everything, I determined to take courage 
and ask you.” 

Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent 
upon her face, until Florence raising her own, she, in 
her turn, withdrew her gaze, and turned it on the ground. 
It was then that Florence thought how different this 
lady’s beauty was, from what she had supposed. She 
had thought it of a proud and lofty kind ; yet her man- 
ner was so subdued and gentle, that if she had been of 
Florence’s own age and character, it scarcely could have 
invited confidence more. 

Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept 
over her ; and then she seemed (but Florence hardly 
understood this, though she could not choose but notice 
it, and think about it) as if she were humbled before 
Florence, and ill at ease. When she had said that she 
was not her mama yet, and when Florence had called 
her the mistress of everything there, this change in her 
was quick and startling ; and now, while the eyes of 
Florence rested on her face, she sat as though she would 
have shrunk and hidden from her, rather than as one 
about to love and cherish her, in right of such a near 
connection. 

She gave Florence her ready promise about her new 
room, and said she would give directions about it her- 
self. She then asked some questions concerning poor 
Paul ; and when they had sat in* conversation for some 
time told Florence she had come to take her to her own 
home. 

“We have come to London now, my mother and I,” 
fcaid Edith, “ and you shall stay with us until I am mar- 


291 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ried. I wish that we should know and trust each other. 
Florence.” 

“ You are very kind to me,” said Florence, “ dear 
mama. How much I thank you ! ” 

“ Let me say now, for it may be the best opportunity,” 
continued Edith, looking round to see that they were 
quite alone, and speaking in a lcTwer voice, “ that when 
I am married, and have gone away for some weeks, I 
shall be easier at heart if you will come home here. 
No matter who invites you to stay elsewhere, come home 
here. It is better to be alone than — what I would say 
is,” she added, checking herself, “ that I know well you 
are best at home, dear Florence.” 

“ I will come home on the very day, mama.” 

“ Do so. I rely on that promise. Now, prepare to 
come with me, dear girl. You will find me down-stairs 
when you are ready.” 

Slowly and thoughtfully did Edith wander alone 
through the mansion of which she was so soon to be 
the lady : and little heed took she of all the elegance 
and splendor it began to display. The same indomita- 
ble haughtiness of soul, the same proud scorn expressed 
in eye and lip, the same fierce beauty, only tamed by a 
sense of its own little worth, and of the little worth of 
everything around it, went through the grand saloons 
and halls, that had got loose among the shady trees, and 
raged and rent themselves. The mimic roses on the 
walls and floors vvere set round with sharp thorns, that 
tore her breast ; in every scrap of gold so dazzling to 
the eye, she saw some hateful atom of her purchase- 
money ; the broad high mirrors showed her, at full 
length, a woman with a noble quality yet dwelling in 
her nature, who was too false to her better self, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


295 


too debased and lost, to save herself. She believed that 
all this was so plain, more or less, to all eyes, that she 
had no resource or power of self-assertion but in pride 
and with this pride, which tortured her own heart night 
and day, she fought her fate out, braved it, and de- 
fied it. 

Was this the woman whom Florence — an innocen 
girl, strong only in her earnestness and simple truth — * 
could so impress and quell, that by her side she was 
another creature, with her tempest of fashion hushed, 
and her very pride itself subdued? Was this the 
woman who now sat beside her in a carriage, with her 
arms entwined, and who, while she courted and entreated 
her to love and trust her, drew her fair head to nestle 
on her breast, and would have laid down life to shield 
it from wrong or harm ? 

Oh, Edith! it were well to die, indeed, at such a 
time! Better and happier far, perhaps, to die so, Edith, 
than to live on to the end ! 

The Honorable Mrs. Skewton, who was thinking of 
anything rather than of such sentiments — for, like many 
genteel persons who have existed at various times, she 
set her face against death altogether, and objected to the 
mention of any such low and levelling upstart — had 
borrowed a house in Brook-street, Grosvenor-square, 
from a stately relative (one of the Feenix brood), who 
was out of town, and who did not object to lending it, 
in the handsomest manner, for nuptial purposes, as the 
loan implied his final release and acquittance from all 
further loans and gifts to Mrs. Skewton and her daughter. 
It being necessary for the credit of the family to make 
a handsome appearance at such a time, Mrs. Skewton 
with the assistance of an accommodating tradesman resi- 


296 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


dent in the parish of Mary-le-bone, who lent out all 
sorts of articles to the nobility and gentry, from a ser- 
vice of plate to an army of footmen, clapped into this 
house a silver-headed butler (who was charged extra on 
that account, as having the appearance of an ancient 
family retainer), two very tall young men in livery, and 
a select staff of kitchen-servants ; so that a legend arose, 
down-stairs, that Withers the page, released at once from 
his numerous household duties, and from the propulsion 
of the wheeled-chair (inconsistent with the metropolis), 
had been several times observed to rub his eyes and 
pinch his limbs, as if he misdoubted his having over- 
slept himself at the Leamington milkman’s, and being 
still in a celestial dream. A variety of requisites in 
plate and china being also conveyed to the same estab- 
lishment from the same convenient source, with several 
miscellaneous articles, including a neat chariot and a pair 
of bays, Mrs. Skew ton cushioned herself on the princi- 
pal sofa, in the Cleopatra attitude, and held her court in 
fair state. 

“ And how,” said Mrs. Skewton, on the entrance of 
her daughter and her charge, “ is my charming Flor- 
ence ? You must come and kiss me, Florence, if you 
please, my love.” 

Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in 
th 3 white part of Mrs. Skewton’s face, when that lady 
presented her ear, and relieved her of her difficulty. 

66 Edith, my dear,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ positively, I 
— stand a little more in the light, my sweetest Florence, 
for a moment.” 

Florence blushingly complied. 

“ You don’t remember, dearest Edith,” said her mother, 
* what you were when you were about the same age as 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


297 


our exceedingly precious Florence, or a few years 
younger ? ” 

“ I have long forgotten, mother.” 

“ For positively, my dear,” said Mrs. Skewton, u I do 
think that I see a decided resemblance to what you were 
then, in our extremely fascinating young friend. And 
it shows,” said Mrs. Skewton, in a lower voice, which 
conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very un- 
finished state, “ what cultivation will do.” 

“ It does, indeed,” was Edith's stern reply. 

Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feel- 
ing herself on unsafe ground, said, as a diversion : 

“ My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me 
once more, if you please, my love.” 

Florence complied, of course, and a» lin imprinted her 
lips on Mrs. Skewton’s ear. 

“ And you have heard, no doubt, my darling pet,” said 
Mrs. Skewton, detaining her hand, u that your papa, 
whom we all perfectly adore and dote upon, is to be 
married to my dearest Edith this day week.” 

“ I knew it would be very soon,” returned Florence, 
“ but not exactly when.” 

“ My darling Edith,” urged her mother gayly, “ is it 
possible you have not told Florence ? ” 

“ Why should I tell Florence ? ” she returned, so sud- 
denly and harshly, that Florence could scarcely believe 
it was the same voice. 

Mrs. Skewton then told Florence, as anothei and 
safer diversion, that her father was coming to dinner, 
and that he would no doubt be charmingly surprised to 
see her ; as he had spoken last night of dressing in the 
city, and had known nothing of Edith’s design, the ex- 
ecution of which, according to Mrs. Skewton’s expecta- 


298 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


tion, would throw him into a perfect ecstasy. Florence 
was troubled to hear this ; and her distress became so 
keen, as the dinner-hour approached, that if she had 
known how to frame an entreaty to be suffered to re- 
turn home, without involving her father in her expla- 
nation, she would have hurried back on foot, bareheaded, 
breathless, and alone, rather than incur the risk of meet- 
ing his displeasure. 

As the time drew nearer, she could hardly breathe. 
She dared not approach a window, lest he should see 
Iver from the street. She dared not go up-stairs to hide 
her emotion, lest in passing out at the door, she should 
meet him unexpectedly ; besides which dread she felt as 
though she never could come back again if she were 
summoned to his presence. In this conflict of her fears, 
she was sitting by Cleopatra’s couch, endeavoring to un- 
derstand and to reply to the bald discourse of that lady, 
when she heard his foot upon the stair. 

“ I hear him now ! ” cried Florence, starting. “ He is 
coming ! ” 

Cleopatra, who in her juvenility was always playfully 
disposed, and who in her self-engrossment did not trouble 
herself about the nature of this agitation, pushed Flor- 
ence behind her couch, and dropped a shawl over her, 
preparatory to giving Mr. Dombey a rapture of surprise. 
It was so quickly done that in a moment Florence heard 
his awful step in the room. 

Ho saluted his intended mother-in-law, and his in- 
tended bride. The strange sound of his voice thrilled 
through the whole frame of his child. 

“ My dear Dombey,” said Cleopatra, “ come here and 
tell me how your pretty Florence is.” 

“ Florence is very w r ell,” said Mr. Dombey, advancing 
towards the couch. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


299 


u At home ? ” 

u At home,” said Mr. Dombey. 

u My dear Dombey,” returned Cleopatra, with be- 
witching vivacity ; “ now are you sure you are not de- 
ceiving me ? I don’t know what my dearest Edith will 
say to me when I make such a declaration, but upon my 
honor I am afraid you are the falsest of men, my dear 
Dombey.” 

Though he had been ; and had been detected on the 
spot, in the most enormous falsehood that was ever said 
or done ; he could hardly have been more disconcerted 
than he was, when Mrs. Skewton plucked the shawl 
away, and Florence, pale and trembling, rose before 
him like a ghost. He had not yet recovered his pres- 
ence of mind, when Florence had run up to him, clasped 
her hands round his neck, kissed his face, and hurried 
out of the room. He looked round as if to refer the 
matter to somebody else, but Edith had gone after Flor- 
ence, instantly. 

“ Now confess, my dear Dombey,” said Mrs. Skewton, 
giving him her hand, “ that you never were more sur- 
prised and pleased in your life.” • 

“ I never was more surprised,” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Nor pleased, my dearest Dombey ? ” returned Mrs,, 
Skewton, holding up her fan. 

“ I — yes, I urn exceedingly glad to meet Florence 
here,” said Mr. Dombey. He appeared to consider 
gravely about it for a moment, and then said, more de- 
cidedly, “ Yes, I really am very glad indeed to meet 
Florence here.” 

“ You wonder how she comes here?” said Mrs. Skew- 
ton, “don’t you?” 

“ Edith, perhaps ” — suggested Mr. Dombey. 


800 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Ah ! wicked guesser ! ” replied Cleopatra, shaking 
her head. “Ah! cunning, cunning man ! One shouldn’t 
tell these things ; your sex, my dear Dombey, are so 
vain, and so apt to abuse our weaknesses ; but, you 
know my open soul — very well ; immediately.” 

This was addressed to one of the very tall young 
men who announced dinner. 

“ But Edith, my dear Dombey,” she continued in a 
whisper, “ when she cannot have you near her — and 
as I tell her, she cannot expect that always — will at 
least have near her something or somebody belonging 
to you. Well, how extremely natural that is ! And in 
this spirit, nothing would keep her from riding off to-day 
to fetch our darling Florence. Well, how excessively 
charming that is ! ” 

As she waited for an answer, Mr. Dombey answered, 
“ Eminently so.” 

“ Bless you, my dear Dombey, for that proof of 
heart ! ” cried Cleopatra, squeezing his hand. “ But I 
am growing too serious ! Take me down-stairs, like 
an angel, and let us see what these people intend tc 
give us for dinner. -Bless you, dear Dombey ! ” 

Cleopatra skipping off her couch with tolerable brisk- 
ness, after the last benediction, Mr. Dombey took her 
arm in his and led her ceremoniously down-stairs; one 
Df the very tall young men on hire, •whose organ of 
veneration was imperfectly developed, thrusting his 
tongue into his cheek, for the entertainment of the 
other very tall young man on hire, as the couple turned 
into the dining-room. 

Florence and Edith were already there, and sitting 
side by side. Florence would have risen when her 
father entered, to resign her chair to him ; but Edith 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


30) 


openly put her hand upon her arm, and Mr. Dombey 
took an opposite place at the round table. 

The conversation was almost entirely sustained by 
Mrs. Skewton. Florence hardly dared to raise her eyes, 
lest they should reveal the traces of tears ; far less dared 
to speak ; and Edith never uttered one word, unless in 
answer to a question. Verily, Cleopatra worked hard, 
for the establishment that was so nearly clutched ; and 
verily it should have been a rich one to reward her ! 

‘‘ And so your preparations are nearly finished at last, 
my dear Dombey ? ” said Cleopatra, when the dessert 
was put upon the table, and the silver-headed butler had 
withdrawn. “ Even the lawyer’s preparations ! ” 

“ Yes, madam,” replied Mr. Dombey ; “ the deed of 
settlement, the professional gentlemen inform me, is now 
ready, and as I was mentioning to you, Edith has only 
to do us the favor to suggest her own time for its exe- 
cution.” 

Edith sat like a handsome statue ; as cold, as silent, 
and as still. 

“ My dearest love,” said Cleopatra, “ do you hear what 
Mr. Dombey says ? Ah, my dear Dombey ! ” aside to 
that gentleman, “ How her absence, as the time ap- 
proaches, reminds me of the days, when that most 
agreeable of creatures, her papa, was in your situa- 
tion ! ” 

“ I have nothing to suggest. It shall be when you 
please,” said Edith, scarcely looking over the table at 
Mr. Dombey. 

“ To-morrow ? ” suggested Mr. Dombey. 

“ If you please.” 

“ Or would next day,” said Mr. Dombey, “ suit your 
engagements better ? ” 


302 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ I have no sngagements. I am always at your dis- 
posal. Let it be when you like.” 

“ No engagements, my dear Edith ! ” remonstrated 
her mother, “ when you are in a most terrible state of 
flurry all day long, and have a thousand and one ap- 
pointments with all sorts of tradespeople ! ” 

“ They are of your making,” returned Edith, turning 
on her, with a slight contraction of her brow. “You 
and Mr. Dombey can arrange between you.” 

a Very true indeed, my love, and most considerate of 
you ! ” said Cleopatra. “ My darling Florence, you 
must really come and kiss me once more, if you please, 
my dear ! ” 

Singular coincidence, that these gushes of interest in 
Florence hurried Cleopatra away from almost every 
dialogue in which Edith had a share, however trifling ! 
Florence had certainly never undergone so much em- 
bracing, and perhaps had never been, unconsciously, so 
useful in her life. 

Mr. Dombey was far from quarrelling, in his own 
breast, with the manner of his beautiful betrothed. He 
had that good reason for sympathy with haughtiness and 
coldness, which is found in a fellow-feeling. It flattered 
him to think how these deferred to him, in Edith’s case, 
and seemed to have no will apart from his. It flattened 
him to picture to himself, this proud and stately woman 
doing the honors of his house, and chilling his guests 
after his own manner. The dignity of Dombey and 
Son would be heightened and maintained, indeed, in 
such hands. 

So thought Mr. Dombey, when he was left alone at 
the dining-table, and mused upon his past and future 
fortunes : finding no uncongeniality in an air of scant 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


303 


and gloomy state that pervaded the room, in color a dark 
brown, with black hatchments of pictures blotching the 
walls, and twenty-four black chairs, with almost as many 
nails in them as so many coffins, waiting like mutes, 
upon the threshold of the Turkey carpet ; and two ex- 
hausted negroes holding up two withered branches of 
candelabra on the sideboard, and a musty smell prevail- 
ing as if the ashes of ten thousand dinners were en- 
tombed in the sarcophagus below it. The owner of the 
house lived much abroad ; the air of England seldom 
agreed long with a member of the Feenix family ; and 
the room had gradually put itself into deeper and still 
deeper mourning for him, until it was become so funereal 
as to want nothing but a body in it to be quite complete. 

No bad representation of the body, for the nonce, in 
his unbending form, if not in his attitude, Mr. Dombey 
looked down into the cold depths of the dead sea of ma- 
hogany on which the fruit dishes and decanters lay at 
anchor ; as if the subjects of his thoughts were rising 
towards the surface one by one, and plunging down 
again. Edith was there in all her majesty of brow and 
figure ; and close to her came Florence, with her timid 
head turned to him, as it had been, for an instant when 
she left the room ; and Edith’s eyes upon her, and 
Edith’s hand put out protectingly. A little figure in a 
low arm-chair came springing next into the light, and 
looked upon him wonderingly, with its bright eyes and 
its old-young face, gleaming as in the flickering of an 
evening fire. Again came Florence close upon it, and 
absorbed his whole attention. Whether as a foredoomed 
difficulty and disappointment to him ; whether as a rival 
who had crossed him in his way, and might again ; 
whether as his child, of whom, in his successful wooing, 


804 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


he could stoop to think, as claiming, at such a time, to be 
no more estranged ; or whether as a hint to him that the 
mere appearance of caring for his own blood should be 
maintained in his new relations ; he best knew. Indif- 
ferently well, perhaps, at best ; for marriage company 
and marriage altars, and ambitious scenes — still blotted 
here and there with Florence — always Florence — 
turned up so fast, and so confusedly, that he rose, and 
went up-stairs, to escape them. 

It was quite late at night before candles were brought; 
for at present they made Mrs. Skewton’s head ache, she 
complained ; and in the mean time Florence and Mrs. 
Skewton talked together (Cleopatra being very anxious 
to keep her close to herself), or Florence touched the 
piano softly for Mrs. Skewton’s delight ; to make no 
mention of a few occasions in the course of the evening, 
when that affectionate lady was impelled to solicit an- 
other kiss, and which always happened after Edith had 
said anything. They were not many, however, for Edith 
sat apart by an open window during the whole time (in 
spite of her mother’s fears that she would take cold), 
and remained there until Mr. Dombey took leave. He 
was serenely gracious to Florence when he did so ; and 
Florence went to bed in a room within Edith’s, so happy 
and hopeful, that she thought of her late self as if it were 
some other poor deserted girl who was to be pitied for 
her sorrow ; and in her pity, sobbed herself to sleep. 

The week fled fast. There were drives to milliners, 
dress-makers, jewellers, lawyers, florists, pastry-cooks ; 
and Florence was always of the party. Florence was to 
go to the wedding. Florence was to cast off her mourn- 
ing, and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The 
milliner’s intentions on the subject of this dress — the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


305 


milliner was a Frenchwoman, and greatly resembled 
Mrs. Skewton — were so chaste and elegant, that Mrs. 
Skewton bespoke one like it for herself. The milliner 
said it would become her to admiration, and that all the 
world would take her for the young lady’s sister. 

The week fled faster. Edith looked at nothing and 
cared for nothing. Her rich dresses came home, and 
were tried on, and were loudly commended by Mrs. 
Skewton and the milliners, and were put away without 
a word from her. Mrs. Skewton made their plans for 
every day, and executed them. Sometimes Edith sat in 
the carriage when they went to make purchases ; some- 
times, when it was absolutely necessary, she went into 
the shops. But Mrs. Skewton conducted the whole 
business, whatever it happened to be ; and Edith looked 
on as uninterested and with as much apparent indiffer- 
ence as if she had no concern in it. Florence might 
perhaps have thought she was haughty and listless, but 
that she was never so to her. So Florence quenched 
her wonder in her gratitude whenever it broke out, and 
soon subdued it. 

The week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight 
away. The last night of the week, the night before the 
marriage, was come. In the dark room — for Mrs. 
Skewton’s head was no better yet, though she expected 
to recover permanently to-morrow — were that lady, 
Edith, and Mr. Dombey. Edith was at her open win- 
dow looking out into the street ; Mr. Dombey and Cleo- 
patra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing 
iate; and Florence being fatigued, had gone to bed. 

u My dear Dombey,” said Cleopatra, “ you will leave 
me Florence to-morrow, when you deprive me of my 
sweetest Edith.” 


VOL. II. 


20 


306 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Mr. Dombey said he would, with pleasure. 

“ To have her about me, here, while you are both at 
Paris, and to think that, at her age, I am assisting in the 
formation of her mind, my dear Dombey,” said Cleopa- 
tra, “ will be a perfect balm to me in the extremely shat- 
tered state to which I shall be reduced.” 

Edith turned her head suddenly. Her listless manner 
was exchanged, in a moment, to one of burning interest, 
and, unseen in the darkness, she attended closely to their 
conversation. 

Mr. Dombey would be delighted to leave Florence in 
such admirable guardianship. 

“ My dear Dombey,” returned Cleopatra, “ a thousand 
thanks for your good opinion. I feared you were going, 
with malice aforethought, as the dreadful lawyers say — 
those horrid prosers ! — to condemn me to utter soli- 
tude.” 

“ Why do me so great an injustice, my dear madam?” 
-said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Because my charming Florence tells me so posi- 
tively she must go home to-morrow,” returned Cleopatra, 
“ that I began to be afraid, my dearest Dombey, you 
were quite a Bashaw.” 

“ I assure you, madam !” said Mr. Dombey, “ I have 
laid no commands on Florence ; and if I had, there are 
no commands like your wish.” 

w My dear Dombey,” replied Cleopatra, “ what a 
courtier you are ! Though I’ll not say so, either ; 
for courtiers have no heart, and yours pervades your 
charming life and character. And are you really going 
so early, my dear Dombey ! ” 

Oh, indeed ! it was late, and Mr. Dombey feared he 
must. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


307 


“ Is this a fact, or is it all a dream ! ” lisped Cleopatra. 
K Can I believe, my dearest Dombey, that you are com- 
ing back to-morrow morning to deprive me of my sweet 
companion ; my own Edith ! ” 

Mr. Dombey, who was accustomed to take things 
literally, reminded Mrs. Skewton that they were to mee 
first at the church. 

“ The pang,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ of consigning a 
child, even to you, my dear Dombey, is one of the most 
excruciating imaginable ; and combined with a naturally 
delicate constitution, and the extreme stupidity of the 
pastry-cook who has undertaken the breakfast, is almost 
too much for my poor strength. But I shall rally, my 
dear Dombey, in the morning ; do not fear for me, or be 
uneasy on my account. Heaven bless you ! My dear- 
est Edith ! ” she cried archly. “ Somebody is going, 
pet.” 

Edith, who had turned her head again towards the 
window, and whose interest in their conversation had 
ceased, rose up in her place, but made no advance tow- 
ards him, and said nothing. Mr. Dombey, with a lofty 
gallantry adapted to his dignity and the occasion, betook 
his creaking boots towards her, put her hand to his lips, 
and said, u To-morrow morning I shall have the happi- 
ness of claiming this hand as Mrs. Dombey’s,” and 
bowed himself solemnly out. 

Mrs. Skewton rang for candles as soon as the house- 
door had closed upon him. With the candles appeared 
her maid, with the juvenile dress that was to delude the 
world to-morrow. The dress had savage retribution in 
it, as such dresses ever have, and made her infinitely 
older and more hideous than her greasy flannel gown 
But Mrs. Skewton tried it on with mincing satisfaction* 


308 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


smirked at her cadaverous self in the glass, as she 
thought of its killing effect upon the major ; and suf- 
fering her maid to take it off again, and to prepare her 
for repose, tumbled into ruins like a house of painted 
cards. 

All this time, Edith remained at the dark window 
looking out into the street. When she and her mother 
were at last left alone, she moved from it for the first 
time that evening, and came opposite to her. The yawn- 
ing, shaking, peevish figure of the mother, with her eyes 
raised to confront the proud erect form of the daughter, 
whose glance of fire was bent downward upon her, had 
a conscious air upon it, that no levity or temper could 
conceal. 

“ I am tired to death,” said she. u You can’t be 
trusted for a moment. You are worse than a child. 
Child! No child would be half so obstinate and un- 
dutiful” 

“ Listen to me, mother,” returned Edith, passing these 
words by with a scorn that would not descend to trifle 
with them. “ You must remain alone here until I re- 
turn.” 

“ Must remain alone here, Edith, until you return ? ” 
repeated her mother. 

“ Or in that name upon which I shall call to-morrow 
to witness what I do, so falsely, and so shamefully, I 
swear I will refuse the hand of this man in the church 
If I do not, may I fall dead upon the pavement ! ” 

The mother answered with a look of quick alarm, in 
no degree diminished by the look she met. 

“ It is enough,” said Edith, steadily, “ that we are 
what we are. I will have no youth and truth dragged 
down to my level. I will have no guileless nature un- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


309 


dermined, corrupted, and perverted, to amuse the leisure 
of a world of mothers. You know my meaning. Flor- 
ence must go home.” * 

“ You are an idiot, Edith,” cried her angry mother. 
“ Do you expect there can ever be peace for you in that 
house, till she is married, and away ? ” 

“ Ask me, or ask yourself, if I ever expect peace in 
that house,” said her daughter, “ and you know the 
answer.” 

“ And am I to be told to-night, after all my pains and 
labor, and when you are going, through me, to be ren- 
dered independent,” her mother almost shrieked in her 
passion, while her palsied head shook like a leaf, “ that 
there is corruption and contagion in me, and that I am 
not fit company for a girl ! What are you, pray ? What 
are you ? ” 

“ I have put the question to myself,” said Edith, ashy 
pale, and pointing to the window, “ more than once when 
I have been sitting there, and something in the faded 
likeness of my sex has wandered past outside ; and God 
knows I have met with my reply. Oh mother, mother, 
if you had but left me to my natural heart when I too 
was a girl — a younger girl than Florence — how dif- 
ferent I might have been ! ” 

Sensible that any show of anger was useless here, her 
mother restrained herself, and fell a-whimpering, and be- 
wailed that she had lived too long, and that her only 
child had cast her off, and that duty towards parents was 
forgotten in these evil days, and that she had heard un- 
natural taunts, and cared for life no longer. 

“ If one is to go on living through continual scenes 
like this,” she whined, “ I am sure it would be much 
better for me to think of some means of putting an end 


310 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to my existence. Oh ! The idea of your being my 
daughter, Edith, and addressing me in such a strain ! ” 
“ Between us, mother,” returned Edith, mournfully, 
“ the time for mutual reproaches is past.” 

“ Then why do you revive it ? ” whimpered her 
mother. “ You know that you are lacerating me in 
the cruellest manner. You know how sensitive I am 
to unkindness. At such a moment, too, when I have so 
much to think of, and am naturally anxious to appear to 
the best advantage ! I wonder at you, Edith. To make 
your mother a fright upon your wedding-day ! ” 

Edith bent the same fixed look upon her, as she 
sobbed and rubbed her eyes ; and said in the same 
low steady voice, which had neither risen nor fallen 
since she first addressed her, “ I have said that Flor- 
ence must go home.” 

u Let her go ! ” cried the afflicted and affrighted par- 
ent, hastily. “ I am sure I am willing she should go. 
What is the girl to me ? ” 

“ She is so much to me, that rather than communicate, 
or suffer to be communicated to her, one grain of the 
evil that is in my breast, mother, I would renounce you, 
as I would (if you gave me cause) renounce him in the 
church to-morrow,” replied Edith. “ Leave her alone. 
She shall not, while I can interpose, be tampered with 
and tainted by the lessons I have learned. This is no 
hard condition on this bitter night.” 

“ If you had proposed it in a filial manner, Edith,” 
whined her mother, ‘‘perhaps not ; very likely not. But 
such extremely cutting words ” — 

“ They are past and at an end between us now,” said 
Edith. “ Take your own way, mother ; share as you 
please in what you have gained; spend, enjoy, make 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


311 


much of it ; and be as happy as you will. The object 
of our lives is won. Henceforth let us wear it silently. 
My lips are closed upon the past from this hour. I for* 
give you your part in to-morrow’s wickedness. May 
God forgive my own ! ” 

Without a tremor in her voice or frame, and passing 
onward with a foot that set itself upon the neck of every 
soft emotion, she bade her mother good-night, and re- 
paired to her own room. 

But not to rest: for there was no rest in the tumult 
of her agitation when alone. To and fro, and to and 
fro, and to and fro again, five hundred times, among the 
splendid preparations for her adornment on the morrow ; 
with her dark hair shaken down, her dark eyes flashing 
with a raging light, her broad white bosom red with the 
cruel grasp of the relentless hand with which she 
spurned it from her, pacing up and down with an 
averted head, as if she would avoid the sight of her 
own fair person, and divorce herself from its compan- 
ionship. Thus, in the dead time of the night before 
her bridal, Edith Granger wrestled with her unquiet 
spirit, tearless, friendless, silent, proud, and uncomplain- 
ing. 

At length it happened that she touched the open door 
which led into the room where Florence lay. 

She started, stopped, and looked in. 

A light was burning there, and showed her Florence 
in her bloom of innocence and beauty, fast asleep. Edith 
held her breath, and felt herself drawn on towards her. 

Drawn nearer, nearer, nearer yet; at last, drawn so 
near, that stooping down, she pressed her lips to the 
gentle hand that lay outside the bed, and put it softly 
to her neck. Its touch was like the prophet’s rod of old 


312 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


upon the rock. Her tears sprung forth beneath it, as 
she sunk upon her knees, and laid her aching head and 
streaming hair upon the pillow by its side. 

Thus Edith Granger passed the night before her bri- 
dal. Thus the sun found her on her bridal morning. 























r l 






daughter living and came bads f sbe 
' p tng or th f: o or b efc or e n er , daspang n e ' 
otuL against them, and 'still rocking Lots eif' 
v frantic demonstration ol winch, hex Vitality* 

















DOMBEY AND SON. 


VOLUME III. 



DOMBEY AND SON 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE WEDDING. 

Daw, with its passionless blank face, steals shiver- 
ing to the church beneath which lies the dust of little 
Paul and his mother, and looks in at the windows. It 
is cold and dark. Night crouches yet, upon the pave- 
ment, and broods, sombre and heavy, in nooks and cor- 
ners of the building. The steeple-clock, perched up 
above the houses, emerging from beneath another of 
the countless ripples in the tide of time that regularly 
roll and break on the eternal shore, is grayly visible, 
like a stone beacon, recording how the sea flows on ; but 
within doors, dawn, at first, can only peep at night, and 
see that it is there. 

Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, 
dawn moans and weeps for its short reign, and its tears 
trickle on the window-glass, and the trees against the 
church-wall bow their heads, and wring their many 
hands in sympathy. Night, growing pale before it, 
gradually fades out of the church, but lingers in the 
vaults below, and sits upon the coffins. And now comes 
bright day, burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening 
the spire, and drying up the tears of dawn, and stifling 


8 


DOJVIBEY AND SON. 


its complaining ; and the scared dawn, following the 
night, and chasing it from its last refuge, shrinks into 
the vaults itself and hides, with a frightened face, among 
the dead, until night returns, refreshed, to drive it out. 

And now, the mice, who have been busier with the 
prayer-books than their proper owners, and with the 
hassocks, more worn by their little teeth than by human 
knees, hide their bright eyes in their holes, and gather 
close together in affright at the resounding clashing of 
the churcli-door. For the beadle, that man of power, 
comes early this morning with the sexton ; and Mrs. Miff, 
the wheezy little pew-opener — a mighty dry old lady, 
sparely dressed, with not an inch of fulness anywhere 
about her — is also here, and has been waiting at the 
church-gate half an hour, as her place is, for the beadle. 

A vinegary face has Mrs. Miff, and a mortified bon- 
net, and eke a thirsty soul for sixpences and shillings. 
Beckoning to stray people to come into pews, has given 
Mrs. Miff an air of mystery ; and there is reservation 
in the eye of Mrs. Miff, as always knowing of a softer 
seat, but having her suspicions of the fee. There is no 
such fact as Mr. Miff, nor has there been these twenty 
years, and Mrs. Miff would rather not allude to him. He 
held some bad opinions, it would seem, about free-seats; 
and though Mrs. Miff hopes he may be gone upwards, 
she couldn’t positively undertake to say so. 

Busy is Mrs. Miff this morning at the church-door, 
beating and dusting the altar-cloth, the carpet, and the 
cushions ; and much has Mrs. Miff to say, about the 
wedding they are going to have. Mrs. Miff is told, that 
the new furniture and alterations in the house cost full 
five thousand pound if they cost a penny; and Mrs. Miff 
has heard, upon the best authority, that the lady hasn’t 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


9 


got a sixpence wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs. Miff 
remembers, likewise, as if it had happened yesterday, 
the first wife’s funeral, and then the christening, and 
then the other funeral ; and Mrs. Miff says, by-the-by 
she’ll soap-and- water that ’ere tablet presently, against 
the company arrive. Mr. Sownds, the beadle, who is 
sitting in the sun upon the church-steps all this time 
(and seldom does anything else, except, in cold weather, 
sitting by the fire), approves of Mrs. Miff’s discourse, 
and asks if Mrs. Miff has heard it said, that the lady 
is uncommon handsome? The information Mrs. Miff 
has received being of this nature, Mr. Sownds the 
beadle, who, though orthodox and corpulent, is still an 
admirer of female beauty, observes, with unction, yes, 
he hears she is a spanker — an expression that seems 
somewhat forcible to Mrs. Miff, or would from any lips 
but those of Mr. Sownds the beadle. 

In Mr. Dombey’s house, at this same time, there is 
great stir and bustle, more especially among the women : 
not one of whom has had a wink of sleep since four 
o’clock, and all of whom were full dressed before six. 
Mr. Towlinson is an object of greater consideration than 
usual to the house-maid, and the cook says at breakfast- 
time that one wedding makes many, which the house- 
maid can’t believe, and don’t think true at alh Mr. 
Towlinson reserves his sentiments on this question ; 
being rendered something gloomy by the engagement of 
a foreigner with whiskers (Mr. Towlinson is whisker- 
less himself), who has been hired to accompany the 
happy pair to Paris, and who is busy packing the new 
chariot. In respect of this personage, Mr. Towlinson 
admits, presently, that he never knew of any good that 
ever come of foreigners ; and being charged by the 


10 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ladies with prejudice, says, look at Bonaparte, who was 
at the head of ’em, and see what he was always up to! 
Which the house-maid says is very true. 

The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room 
in Brook-street, and the very tall young men are busy 
looking on. One of the very tall young men already 
smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to become 
fixed in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing 
them. The very tall young man is conscious of this fail- 
ing in himself ; and informs his comrade that it’s his 
“ exciseman.” The very tall young man would say ex- 
citement, but his speech is hazy. 

The men who play the bells have got scent of the 
marriage ; and the marrow-bones and cleavers too ; and 
a brass band too. The first are practising in a back set- 
tlement near Battlebridge ; the second put themselves in 
communication, through their chief, with Mr. Towlinson, 
to whom they offer terms to be bought off* ; and the third, 
in the person of an artful trombone, lurks and dodges 
round the corner, waiting for some traitor tradesman to 
reveal the place and hour of breakfast, for a bribe. Ex- 
pectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a 
wider range* From Balls Pond Mr. Perch brings Mrs. 
Perch to spend the day w T ith Mr. Dombey’s servants, and 
accompany them, surreptitiously, to see the wedding. In 
Mr. Toots’s lodgings, Mr. Toots attires himself as if he 
were at least the bridegroom : determined to behold the 
spectacle in splendor from a secret corner of the gallery, 
and thither to convey the Chicken : for it is Mr. Toots’s 
desperate intent to point out Florence to the Chicken, 
then and there, anl openly to say, “ Now, Chicken, I 
will not deceive you any longer ; the friend I have 
sometimes mentioned to you is myself ; Miss Dombey 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


11 


[s the object of my passion ; what are your opinions, 
Chicken, in this state of things, and what, on the spot, 
do you advise ? ” The so-much-to-be-astonished Chicken, 
in the mean while, dips his beak into a tankard of strong 
beer, in Mr. Toots’s kitchen, and pecks up two pounds 
of beefsteaks. In Princess’s-place, Miss Tox is up and 
doing ; for she too, though in sore distress, is resolved 
to put a shilling in the hands of Mrs. Miff, and see the 
ceremony, which has a cruel fascination for her, from 
some lonely corner. The quarters of the Wooden Mid- 
shipman are all alive ; for Captain Cuttle, in his ankle- 
jacks and with a huge shirt-collar, is seated at his 
breakfast, listening to Rob the Grinder as he reads the 
marriage-service to him beforehand, under orders, to the 
end that the captain may perfectly understand the so- 
lemnity he is about to witness: for which purpose, the 
captain gravely lays injunctions on his chaplain, from 
time to time, to “put about,” or to “overhaul that ’ere 
article again,” or to stick to his own duty, and leave the 
Amens to him, the captain; one of which he repeats 
whenever a pause is made by Rob the Grinder, with 
sonorous satisfaction. 

Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids 
in Mr. Dombey’s street alone, have promised twenty 
families of little women, whose instinctive interest in 
nuptials dates from their cradles, that they shall go and 
see the marriage. Truly, Mr. Sownds the beadle has 
good reason to feel himself in office, as he suns his 
portly figure on the church-steps, waiting for the mar- 
riage hour. Truly, Mrs. Miff has cause to pounce on 
an unlucky dwarf child, with a giant baby, who peeps 
in at the porch, and drive her forth with indignation ! 

Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly 


12 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to attend the marriage. Cousin Feenix was a man about 
town, forty years ago; but he is still so juvenile in iigure 
and in manner, and so well got up, that strangers are 
amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his lord- 
ship’s face, and crows’ feet in his eyes ; and first observe 
him, not exactly certain when he walks across a room, 
of going quite straight to where he wants to go. But 
Cousin Feenix, getting up at half-past seven o’clock or 
so, is quite another thing from Cousin Feenix got up : 
and very dim, indeed, he looks, while being shaved at 
Long’s Hotel, in Bond-street. 

Mr. Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a gen- 
eral whisking away of the women on the staircase, who 
disperse in all directions, with a great rustling of skirts, 
except Mrs. Perch, who, being (but that she always is) 
in an interesting situation, is not nimble, and is obliged 
to face him, and is ready to sink with confusion as she 
courtesies ; — may Heaven avert all evil consequences 
from the house of Perch ! Mr. Dombey walks up to 
the drawing-room to bide his time. Gorgeous are Mr. 
Dombey’s new blue coat, fawn-colored pantaloons, and 
lilac waistcoat ; and a whisper goes about the house, 
that Mr. Dombey’s hair is curled. 

A double-knock announces the arrival of the major, 
who is gorgeous too, and wears a whole geranium in his 
button-hole, and has his hair curled tight and crisp, as 
well the native knows. 

“ Dombey ! ” says the major, putting out both hands, 
4 how are you ? ” 

“ Major,” says Mr. Dombey, “ how are You ? ” 

“ By Jove, sir,” # says the major, “Joey B. is in such 
case this morning, sir,” — and here he hits himself hard 
upon the breast — “ in such case this morning, sir, that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


13 


damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a double 
marriage of it, sir, and take the mothei.” 

Mr. Dombey smiles ; but faintly, even for him ; for 
Mr. Dombey feels that he is going to be related to the 
mother, and that, under those circumstances, she is not 
to be joked about. 

“ Dombey,” says the major, seeing this, “ I give you 
joy. I congratulate you, Dombey. By the Lord, sir,” 
says the major, “ you are more to be envied, this day, 
than any man in England ! ” 

Here again, Mr. Dombey’s assent is qualified ; be- 
cause he is going to confer a great distinction on a lady ; 
and, no doubt, she is to be envied most. 

“ As to Edith Granger, sir,” pursues the major, “ there 
is not a woman in all Europe but might — and would, 
sir, you will allow Bagstock to add — and would — give 
her ears, and her ear-rings, too, to be in Edith Granger’s 
place.” 

u You are good enough to say so, major,” says Mr. 
Dombey. 

“ Dombey,” returns the major, “ you know it. Let 
us have no false delicacy. You know it. Do you 
know it, or do you not, Dombey ? ” says the major, 
almost in a passion. 

“ Oh, really, major ” — 

“ Damme, sir,” retorts the major, “ do you know that 
fact, or do you not ? Dombey ! Is old Joe your friend ? 
Are we on that footing of unreserved intimacy, Dombey, 
that may justify a man — a blunt old Joseph B., sir — 
in speaking out; or am I to take open order, Dombey, 
and to keep my distance, and to stand on forms ? ” 

•' My dear Major Bagstock,” says Mr. Dombey, with 
a gratified air, “ you are quite warm.” 


14 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ By gad, sir,” says the major, “ I am warm. Joseph 
B. does not deny it, Dombey. He is warm. This is 
an occasion, sir, that calls forth all the honest sympathies 
remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used up, invalided, 
J. B. carcass. And I tell you what, Dombey — at such 
a time a man must blurt out what he feels, or put a muz- 
zle on ; and Joseph Bagstock tells you to your face, 
Dombey, as he tells his club behind your back, that he 
never will be muzzled when Paul Dombey is in ques- 
tion, Now, damme, sir,” concludes the major, with great 
firmness, “ what do you make of that ? ” 

“ Major,” says Mr. Dombey, “ I assure you that I am 
really obliged to you. I had no idea of checking your 
too partial friendship.” 

“ Not too partial, sir ! ” exclaims the choleric major. 
“ Dombey, I deny it ! ” 

“ Your friendship I will say then,” pursues Mr. Dom- 
bey, “ on any account. Nor can I forget, major, on such 
an occasion as the present, how much I am indebted to 
it.” 

“ Dombey,” says the major, with appropriate action, 
u that is the hand of Joseph Bagstock ; of plain old Joey 
B., sir, if you like that better ! That is the hand, of 
which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York did me 
the honor to observe, sir, to His Royal Highness the late 
Duke of Kent, that it was the hand of Josh. ; a rough 
and tough, and possibly an up-to-snuff, old vagabond. 
Dombey, may the present moment be the least unhappy 
of our lives. God bless you ! ” 

Now, enters Mr. Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smil- 
ing like a wedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let 
Mr. Dombey’s hand go, he is so congratulatory ; and he 
shakes the major’s hand so heartily at the same time, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


15 


that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it 
comes sliding from between his teeth. 

“ The very day is auspicious/’ says Mr. Carker. “ The 
brightest and most genial weather ! I hope I am not a 
moment late ? ” 

“ Punctual to your time, sir,” says the major. 

“ I am rejoiced, I am sure,” says Mr. Carker. “ I wa6 
afraid I might be a few seconds after the appointed 
time, for I was delayed by a procession of wagons ; 
and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook-street” 
— this to Mr. Dombey — “ to leave a few poor rari- 
ties of flowers for Mrs. Dombey. A man in my posi- 
tion, and so distinguished as to be invited here, is proud 
to offer some homage in acknowledgment of his vassal- 
age : and as I have no doubt Mrs. Dombey is over- 
whelmed with what is costly and magnificent ; ” with a 
strange glance at his patron ; “ I hope the very poverty 
of my offering, may find favor for it.” 

“ Mrs. Dombey, that is to be,” returns Mr. Dombey, 
condescendingly, “ will be very sensible of your atten- 
tion, Carker, I am sure.” 

“ And if she is to be Mrs. Dombey this morning, sir,” 
says the major, putting down his coffee-cup, and looking 
at his watch, “ it’s high time we were off ! ” 

Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr. Dombey, Major Bag- 
stock, and Mr. Carker, to the church. Mr. Sownds the 
beadle has long risen from the steps, and is in waiting 
with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs. Miff' courtesies 
and proposes chairs in the vestry. Mr. Dombey prefers 
remaining in the church. As he looks up at the organ, 
Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks behind the fat leg 
of a cherub on a monument, with cheeks like a young 
Wind. Captain Cuttle, on the contrary, stands up and 


16 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


waves his hook, in token of welcome and encouragement 
Mr. Toots informs the Chicken, behind his hand, that the 
middle gentleman, he in the fawn-colored pantaloons, is 
the father of his love. The Chicken hoarsely whispers 
Mr. Toots that he’s as stiff a cove as ever he see, but 
that it is within the resources of Science to double him 
vtp, with one blow in the waistcoat. 

Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff are eying Mr. Dombey 
from a little distance, when the noise of approaching 
wheels is heard, and Mr. Sownds goes out, Mrs. Miff, 
meeting Mr. Dombey’s eye as it is withdrawn from the 
presumptuous maniac up-stairs, who salutes him with 
so much urbanity, drops a courtesy, and informs him 
that she believes his “ good lady ” is come. Then, there 
is a crowding and a whispering at the door, and the 
good lady enters, with a haughty step. 

There is no sign upon her face, of last night’s suffer 
ing ; there is no trace in her manner, of the woman on 
the bended knees, reposing her wild head, in beautiful 
abandonment, upon the pillow of the sleeping girl. That 
girl, all gentle and lovely, is at her side — a striking 
contrast to her own disdainful and defiant figure, stand- 
ing there, composed, erect, inscrutable of will, resplen- 
dent and majestic in the zenith of its charms, yet beating 
down, and treading on, the admiration that it challenges. 

There is a pause while Mr. Sownds the beadle glides 
into the vestry for the clergyman and clerk. At this 
juncture, Mrs. Skewton speaks to Mr. Dombey ; more 
distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and mcv 
ing, at the same time, close to Edith. 

“ My dear Dombey,” says the good mama, “ I fear 1 
must relinquish darling Florence after all, and suffer her 
to go home, as she herself proposed. After my loss of 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


17 


m-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have spirits, 
even for her society .” 

“ Had she not better stay with you ? ” returns the 
bridegroom. 

“ I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I 
shall be better alone. Besides, my dearest Edith will 
be her natural and constant guardian when you return, 
and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. 
She might be jealous. Eh, dear Edith ? ” 

The affectionate mama presses her daughter’s arm, 
as she says this : perhaps entreating her attention ear- 
nestly. 

“ To be serious, my dear Dombey,” she resumes, “ I 
will relinquish our dear child, and not inflict my gloom 
upon her. We have settled that, just now. She fully 
understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear, — she fully 
understands.” 

Again, the good mother presses her daughter’s arm. 
Mr. Dombey offers no additional remonstrance ; for the 
clergyman and clerk appear ; and Mrs. Miff, and Mr. 
Sownds the beadle, group the party in their proper 
places at the altar rails. 

“ Who giveth this woman to be married to this 
man ? ” 

Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden- 
Baden on purpose. “ Confound it,” Cousin Feenix says 
- — good-natured creature, Cousin Feenix — “ when we 
do get a rich city fellow into the family, let us show him 
some attention ; let us do something for him.” 

“ I give this woman to be married to this man,” saith 
Cousin Feenix therefore. Cousin Feenix, meaning to 
go in a straight line, but turning off sideways by reason 
of his wilful legs, gives the wrong woman to be married 

VOL. in. 2 


18 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to this man, at first — to wit, a bridesmaid of some con- 
dition, distantly connected with the family, and ten years 
Mrs. Skewton’s junior — but Mrs. Miff, interposing her 
mortified bonnet, dexterously turns him back, and runs 
him, as on castors, full at the u good lady ; ” whcm 
Cousin Feenix giveth to be married to this man ac- 
cordingly. 

And will they in the sight of heaven — ? 

Ay, that they will : Mr. Dombey says he will. And 
what says Edith ? She will. 

So, from that day forward, for better for worse, for 
richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and 
to cherish, till death do them part, they plight their troth 
to one another, and are married. 

In a firm, free hand, the bride subscribes her name in 
the register, when they adjourn to the vestry. “ There 
a’n’t a many ladies comes here,” Mrs. Miff says with 
a courtesy — to look at Mrs. Miff, at such a season, is 
to make her mortified bonnet go down with a dip — 
“ writes their names like this good lady ! ” Mr. Sownds 
the beadle thinks it is a truly spanking signature, and 
worthy of the writer — this, however, between himself 
and conscience. 

Florence signs too, but unapplauded, for her hand 
shakes. All the party sign ; Cousin Feenix last; who 
puts his noble name into a wrong place, and enrolls him- 
self as having been born, that morning. 

The major now salutes the bride right gallantly, and 
carries out that branch of military tactics in reference to 
all the ladies : notwithstanding Mrs. Skewton’s being 
extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the 
sacred edifice. The example is followed by Cousin 
Feenix, and even by Mr. Dombey. Lastly, Mr. Car- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


19 


ker, with his white teeth glistening, approaches Edith, 
more as if he meant to bite her, than to taste the sweets 
that linger on her lips. 

There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing 
in her eyes, that may be meant to stay him ; but it does 
not, for he salutes her as the rest have done, and wishes 
her all happiness. 

“ If wishes,” says he in a low voice, “ are not super- 
fluous, applied to such a union.” 

“ I thank you, sir,” she answers, with a curled lip, 
and a heaving bosom. 

But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she 
knew that Mr. Dombey would return to offer his al- 
liance, that Carker knows her thoroughly, and reads her 
right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge 
of her, than by aught else ? Is it for this reason that 
her haughtiness shrinks beneath his smile, like snow 
within the hand that grasps it firmly, and that her im- 
perious glance droops in meeting his, and seeks the 
ground ? 

“ I am proud to see,” says Mr. Carker, with a servile 
stooping of his neck, which the revelations making by 
his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a lie, “ I am proud to 
see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs. Dombey’s 
hand, and permitted to hold so favored a place in so joy- 
ful an occasion.” 

Though she bends her head, in answer, there is some- 
thing in the momentary action of her hand, as if she 
would crush the flowers it holds, and fling them, with 
contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts the hand 
through the arm of her new husband, who has been 
standing near, conversing with the major, and is proud 
again, and motionless, and silent. 


20 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


The carriages are once more at the church-door. Mr. 
Dombey, with his bride upon his arm, conducts her 
through the twenty families of little women who are on 
the steps, and every one of whom remembers the fashion 
and the color of her every article of dress from that mo- 
ment, and reproduces it on her doll, who is forever being 
married. Cleopatra and Cousin Feenix enter the same 
carriage. The major hands into a second carriage, Flor- 
ence, and the bridesmaid who so narrowly escaped being 
given away by mistake, and then enters it himself, and is 
followed by Mr. Carker. Horses prance and caper ; coach- 
men and footmen shine in fluttering favors, flowers, and 
new-made liveries. Away they dash and rattle through 
the streets ; and as they pass along, a thousand heads 
are turned to look at them, and a thousand sober moral- 
ists revenge themselves for not being married too, that 
morning, by reflecting that these people little think such 
happiness can’t last. 

Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherub’s leg, when 
all is quiet, and comes slowly down, from the gallery. 
Miss Tox’s eyes are red, and her pocket-handkerchief 
is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and 
she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to her- 
self the beauty of the bride, and her own comparatively 
feeble and faded attractions ; but the stately image of 
Mr. Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his fawn-colored 
pantaloons, is present to her mind, and Miss Tox weeps 
afresh, behind her veil, on her way home to Princess’s- 
place. Captain Cuttle, having joined in all the amens 
and responses, with a devout growl, feels much improved 
by his religious exercises ; and in a peaceful frame of 
mind, pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in 
hand, and reads the tablet to the memory of little Paul. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


21 


The gallant Mr. Toots, attended by the faithful Chicken, 
leaves the building in torments of love. The Chicken is 
as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning Florence, 
but his first idea has gained possession of him, and he 
thinks the doubling up of Mr. Dombey would be a move 
in the right direction. Mr. Dombey’s servants come cut 
of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush to Brook- 
street, when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposi- 
tion on the part of Mrs. Perch, who entreats a glass of 
water, and becomes alarming ; Mrs. Perch gets better 
soon, however, and is borne away ; and Mrs. Miff, and 
Mr. Sownds the beadle, sit upon the steps to count what 
they have gained by the affair, and talk it over, while 
the sexton tolls a funeral. 

Now, the carriages arrive at the bride’s residence, and 
the players on the bells begin to jingle, and the band 
strikes up, and Mr. Punch, that model of connubial bliss, 
salutes his wife. Now, the people run and push, and 
press round in a gaping throng, while Mr. Dombey, 
leading Mrs. Dombey by the hand, advances solemnly 
into the Feenix halls. Now, the rest of the wedding- 
party alight, and enter after them. And why does Mr. 
Carker, passing through the people to the hall-door, 
think of the old woman who called to him in the grove 
that morning? Or why does Florence, as she passes, 
think, with a tremble, of her childhood, when she was 
lost, and of the visage of good Mrs. Brown? 

Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest 
of days, and more company, though not much ; and now 
ihey leave the drawing-room, and range themselves at 
table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confec- 
tioner can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted 
negroes with as many flowers and love-knots as he will. 


22 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, 
and a rich breakfast is set forth. Mr. and Mrs. Chick 
have joined the party, among others. Mrs. Chick ad 
mires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect 
Dombey ; and is affable and confidential to Mrs. Skew- 
ton, whose mind is relieved of a great load, an l who 
takes her share of the champagne. The very tall young 
man who suffered from excitement early, is better ; but 
a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon him, 
and he hates the other very tall young man, and wrests 
dishes from him by violence, and takes a grim delight in 
disobliging the company. The company are cool and 
calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of pic- 
tures looking down upon them, by any excess of mirth. 
Cousin Feenix and the major are the gayest there ; but 
Mr. Carker has a smile for the whole table. He has 
an especial simile for the bride, who very, very, seldom 
meets it. 

Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have break- 
fasted, and the servants have left the room ; and won- 
derfully young he looks, with his white wristbands al- 
most covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and 
the bloom of the champagne in his cheeks. 

“ Upon my honor,” says Cousin Feenix, “ although it’s 
an unusual sort of thing in a private gentleman’s house, 
I must beg leave to call upon you to drink what is usu- 
ally called a — in fact a toast.” 

The major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr. 
Carker bending his head forward over the table in the 
direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles and nods a great 
many times. 

“ A — in fact it’s not a ” — Cousin Feenix beginning 
again, thus, comes to a dead stop. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


23 


“ Hear, hear ! ” says the major, in a tone of convic* 
lion. 

Mr. Carker softly claps his hands, and bending for- 
ward over the table again, smiles and nods a great many 
more times than before, as if he were particularly struck 
by this last observation, and desired personally to ex- 
press his sense of the good it has done him. 

“It is,” says Cousin Feenix, “an occasion in fact, 
when the general usages of life may be a little departed 
from, without impropriety ; and although I never was 
an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of 
Commons, and had the honor of seconding the address, 
was — in fact, was laid up for a fortnight with the con- 
sciousness of failure ” — 

The major and Mr. Carker are so much delighted by 
this fragment of personal history, that Cousin Feenix 
laughs, and addressing them individually, goes on to 
say: 

“ And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill — still, 
you know, I feel that a duty devolves upon me. And 
when a duty devolves upon an Englishman, he is bound 
to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best way he can. 
Well ! our family has had the gratification, to-day, of 
connecting itself, in the person of my lovely and accom- 
plished relative, whom I now see — in point of fact, 
present ” — 

Here there is general applause. 

“ Present,” repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a 
neat point which will bear repetition — “ with one who — 
that is to say, with a man, at whom the finger of scorn 
can never — in fact, with my honorable friend Dombey, 
if he will allow me to call him so.” 

Cousin Feenix bows to Mr. Dombey ; Mr. Dombey 


24 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


solemnly returns the bow ; everybody is more or less 
gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and perhaps 
unprecedented, appeal to the feelings. 

“ I have not,” says Cousin Feenix, “ enjoyed those 
opportunities which I could have desired, of cultivating 
the acquaintance of my friend Dombey, and studying 
those qualities which do equal honor to his head, and, 
in point of fact, to his heart ; for it has been my mis- 
fortune to be, as we used to say in my time in the 
House of Commons, when it was not the custom to al- 
lude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary 
proceedings was perhaps better observed that it is now 
— to be in — in point of fact,” says Cousin Feenix, cher- 
ishing his joke, with great slyness, and finally bringing it 
out with a jerk, “ 4 in another place ! 9 99 

The major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with 
difficulty. 

“ But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey,” re- 
sumes Cousin Feenix in a graver tone, as if he had 
suddenly become a sadder and a wiser man, “ to know 
that he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically 
called a — a merchant — a British merchant — and a — 
and a man. And although I have been resident abroad 
for some years (it would give me great pleasure to re- 
ceive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden- 
Baden, and to have an opportunity of making ’em known 
to the Grand Duke), still I know enough, I flatter my- 
self, of my lovely and accomplished relative, to know 
that she possesses every requisite to make a man happy, 
and that her marriage with my friend Dombey is one of 
inclination and affection on both sides.” 

Many smiles and nods from Mr. Carker. 

“ Therefore,” says Cousin Feenix, “ I congratulate the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


25 


family of which I am a member, on the acquisition of 
my friend Dombey. I congratulate my friend Dombey 
on his union with my lovely and accomplished relative 
who possesses every requisite to make a man happy; 
and I take the liberty of calling on you all, in point of 
fact, to congratulate both my friend Dombey and my 
lovely and accomplished relative, on the present oc- 
casion.” 

The speech of Cousin Feenix is received with great 
applause, and Mr. Dombey returns thanks on behalf of 
himself and Mrs. Dombey, J. B. shortly afterwards pro- 
poses Mrs. Skewton. The breakfast languishes when that 
is done, the violated hatchments are avenged, and Edith 
rises to assume her travelling dress. 

All the servants in the mean time, have been break- 
fasting below. Champagne has grown too common 
among them to be mentioned, and roast fowls, raised 
pies, and lobster salad, have become mere drugs. The 
very tall young man has recovered his spirits, and again 
alludes to the exciseman. His comrade’s eye begins to 
emulate his own, and he, too, stares at objects without 
taking cognizance thereof. There is a general redness 
in the faces of the ladies; in the face of Mrs. Perch 
particularly, who is joyous and beaming, and lifted so far 
above the cares of life, that if she were asked just now 
to direct a wayfarer to Ball’s Pond, where her own 
cares lodge, she would have some difficulty in recalling 
the way. Mr. Towlinson has proposed the happy pair ; 
to which the silver-headed butler has responded neatly, 
and with emotion ; for he half begins to think he is an 
old retainer of the family, and that he is bound to be 
affected by these changes. The whole party, and es- 
pecially the ladies, are very frolicsome. Mr. Dombey’s 


26 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


cook, who generally takes the lead in society, has said, 
it is impossible to settle down after this, and why not go, 
in a party, to the play ? Everybody (Mrs. Perch in- 
cluded) has agreed to this ; even the native who is tiger- 
ish in his drink, and who alarms the ladies (Mrs. Perch 
particularly) by the rolling of his eyes. One of the 
very tall young men has even proposed a ball after the 
play, and it presents itself to no one (Mrs. Perch in- 
cluded) in the light of an impossibility. Words have 
arisen between the house-maid and Mr. Towlinson ; she, 
on the authority of an old saw, asserting marriages to 
be made in heaven : he, affecting to trace the manufac- 
ture elsewhere ; he, supposing that she says so, because 
she thinks of being married her own self : she, saying, 
Lord forbid, at any rate, that she should ever marry 
Kim . To calm these flying taunts, the silver-headed 
butler rises to propose the health of Mr. Towlinson, 
whom to know is to esteem, and to esteem is to wish 
well settled in life with the object of his choice, where- 
ever (here the silver-headed butler eyes the house-maid) 
she may be. Mr. Towlinson returns thanks in a speech 
replete with feeling, of which the peroration turns on 
foreigners, regarding whom he says they may find favor, 
sometimes with weak and inconstant intellects that can 
be led away by hair, but all he hopes, is, he may never 
hear of no foreigner never boning nothing out of no trav- 
elling chariot. The eye of Mr. Towlinson is so severe 
and so expressive here, that the house-maid is turning 
hysterical, when she and all the rest, roused by the in- 
telligence that the Bride is going away, hurry up-stairs 
to witness her departure. 

The chariot is at the door ; the Bride is descending to 
the hall, where Mr. Dombey waits for her. Florence is 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


27 


ready on the staircase to depart too ; and Miss Nipper, 
who has held a middle state between the parlor and the 
kitchen, is prepared to accompany her. As Edith ap- 
pears, Florence hastens towards her, to bid her farewell. 

Is Edith cold, that she should tremble ! Is there any- 
thing unnatural or unwholesome in the touch of Florence, 
that the beautiful form recedes and contracts, as if it 
could not bear it ! Is there so much hurry in this going 
away, that Edith, with a wave of her hand, sweeps on, 
and is gone ! 

Mrs. Skewton, overpowered by her feelings as a 
mother, sinks on her sofa in the Cleopatra attitude, 
when the clatter of the chariot wheels is lost, and sheds 
several tears. The major, coming with the rest of the 
company from table, endeavors to comfort her ; but she 
will not be comforted on any terms, and so the major 
takes his leave. Cousin Feenix takes his leave, and 
Mr. Carker takes his leave. The guests all go away. 
Cleopatra, left alone, feels a little giddy from her strong 
emotion, and falls asleep. 

Giddiness prevails below stairs too. The very tall 
young man whose excitement came on so soon, appears 
to have his head glued to the table in the pantry, and 
cannot be detached from it. A violent revulsion has 
taken place in the spirits of Mrs. Perch, who is low on 
account of Mr. Perch ; and tells cook that she fears he 
is not so much attached to his home, as he used to be, 
when they were only nine in family. Mr. Towlinson 
has a singing in his ears and a large wheel going round 
and round inside his head. The house-maid wishes it 
wasn’t wicked to wish that one was dead. 

There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower 
regions, on the subject of time everybody conceiving 


28 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that it ought to be, at the earliest, ten o’clock at night, 
whereas it is not yet three in the afternoon. A shadowy 
idea of wickedness committed, haunts every individual 
in the party ; and each one secretly thinks the other a 
companion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable to avoid. 
No man or woman has the hardihood to hint at the pro- 
jected visit to the play. Any one reviving the notion 
of the ball, would be scouted as a malignant idiot. 

Mrs. Skewton sleeps up-stairs, two hours afterwards, 
and naps are not yet over in the kitchen. The hatch- 
ments in the dining-room look down on crumbs, dirty 
plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale discolored 
heel-taps, scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fowls, and 
pensive jellies, gradually resolving themselves into a 
lukewarm gummy soup. The marriage is, by this time, 
almost as denuded of its show and garnish as the break- 
fast. Mr. Dombey’s servants moralize so much about 
it, and are so repentant over their early tea, at home, 
that by eight o’clock or so, they settle down into con- 
firmed seriousness ; and Mr. Perch, arriving at that time 
from the city, fresh and jocular, with a white waistcoat 
and a comic song, ready to spend the evening, and pre- 
pared for any amount of dissipation, is amazed to find 
himself coldly received, and Mrs. Perch but poorly, and 
to have the pleasing duty of escorting that lady home by 
the next omnibus. 

Night closes in. Florence having rambled through 
the handsome house, from room to room, seeks her own 
chamber, where the care of Edith has surrounded her 
with luxuries and comforts ; and divesting herself of her 
handsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning for 
dear Paul, and sits down to read, with Diogenes winking 
and blinking on the ground beside her. But Florence 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


29 


cannot read to-night. The house seems strange and 
new, and there are loud echoes in it. There is a shadow 
on her heart : she knows not why or what : but it is 
heavy. Florence shuts her book, and gruff Diogenes, 
who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon her lap, 
and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But 
Florence cannot see him plainly, in a little time, for 
there is a mist between her eyes and him, and her dead 
brother and dead mother, shine in it like angels. Wal- 
ter, too, poor wandering shipwrecked boy, oh, where is 
he ! 

The major don’t know ; that’s for certain ; and don’t 
care. The major, having choked and slumbered, all the 
afternoon, has taken a late dinner at his club, and now 
sits over his pint of wine, driving a modest young man, 
with a fresh-colored face, at the next table (who would 
give a handsome sum to be able to rise and go away, 
but cannot do it) to the verge of madness, by anecdotes 
of Bagstock, sir, at Dombey’s wedding, and old Joe’s 
devilish gentlemanly friend, Lord Feenix. While Cousin 
Feenix, who ought to be at Long’s, and in bed, finds him- 
self, instead, at a gaming-table, where his wilful legs have 
taken him, perhaps, in his own despite. 

Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to 
roof, and holds dominion through the silent hours. Pale 
dawn again comes peeping through the windows ; and, 
giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the vaults, 
and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead. 
The timid mice again cower close together, when the 
great door clashes, and Mr. Sownds and Mrs. Miff, tread- 
ing the circle of their daily lives, unbroken as a marriage 
ring, come in. Again the cocked-hat and the mortified 
bonne! stand in the background at the marriage hour ; 


30 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and again this man taketli this woman, and this woman 
taketh this man, on the solemn terms : 

“ To have and to hold, from this day forward, for 
better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and 
in health, to love and to cherish, until death do them 
part.” 

The very words that Mr. Carker rides into town re- 
peating, with his mouth stretched to the utmost, as he 
picks his dainty way. 


BOMBEY AND SON. 


SI 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

TIIE WOODEN MIDSHIPMAN GOES TO PIECES. 

Honest Captain Cuttle, as the weeks flew over him 
in his fortified retreat, by no means abated any of his 
prudent provisions against surprise, because of the non- 
appearance of the enemy. The captain argued that his 
present security was too profound and wonderful to en- 
dure much longer ; he knew that when the wind stood 
in a fair quarter, the weathercock was seldom nailed 
there ; and he was too well acquainted with the deter- 
mined and dauntless character of Mrs. MacStinger, to 
doubt that that heroic woman had devoted herself to the 
task of his discovery and capture. Trembling beneath 
the weight of these reasons, Captain Cuttle lived a very 
close and retired life ; seldom stirring abroad until after 
dark; venturing even then only into the obscurest streets ; 
never going forth at all on Sundays ; and both within 
and without the walls of his retreat, avoiding bonnets, 
as if they were worn by raging lions. 

The captain never dreamed that in the event of his being 
pounced upon by Mrs. MacStinger, in his walks, it would 
be possible to offer resistance. He felt that it could not 
be done. He saw himself, in his mind’s eye, put meekly 
in a hackney-coach, and carried off to his old lodgings. 
He foresaw that, once immured there, he was a lost man; 
his hat gone ; Mrs. MacStinger watchful of him day and 


32 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


night ; reproaches heaped upon his head, b .fore the in- 
fant family ; himself the guilty object of suspicion and 
distrust : an ogre in the children’s eyes, and in their 
mother’s a detected traitor. 

A violent perspiration, and a lowness of spirits always 
came over the captain as this gloomy picture presented 
itself to his imagination. It generally did so previous 
to his stealing out of doors at night for air and exercise. 
Sensible of the risk he ran, the captain took leave of Rob, 
at those times with the solemnity which became a man 
who might never return : exhorting him in the event of 
his (the captain’s) being lost sight of, for a time, to tread 
in the paths of virtue, and keep the brazen instruments 
well polished. 

But not to throw away a chance : and to secure to 
himself a means, in case of the worst, of holding com- 
munication with the external world ; Captain Cuttle 
soon conceived the happy idea of teaching Rob the 
Grinder some secret signal, by which that adherent 
might make his presence and fidelity known to his com- 
mander, in the hour of adversity. After much cogita- 
tion, the captain decided in favor of instructing him to 
whistle the marine melody, “ Oh cheerily, cheerily ! * 
and Rob the Grinder attaining a point as near perfection 
in that accomplishment as a landsman could hope to 
reach, the captain impressed these mysterious instruc- 
tions on his mind: 

“ Now, my lad, stand by ! If ever I’m took ” — 

“ Took, captain ! ” interposed Rob, with his round 
eyes wide open. 

* Ah ! ” said Captain Cuttle darkly, “ if ever I goes 
away, meaning to come back to supper, and don’t come 
within hail again twenty-four hours arter my loss, go you 


DOMBEY A.VD SON. 


33 


to Brig-place and whistle that ’ere tune near my old 
moorings — not as if you was a-meaning of it, you un- 
derstand, but as if you’d drifted there, promiscuous. If 
I answer in that tune, you sheer off, my lad, and come 
back four-and-twenty hours arterwards ; if I answer in 
anothBr tune, do you stand off and on, and wait till I 
throw out further signals. Do you understand them 
orders, now ? ” 

“ What am I to stand off and on of, captain ? ” in- 
quired Rob. “ The horse-road ? ” 

“ Here’s a smart lad for you ! ” cried the captain, ey- 
ing him sternly, “as don’t know his own native alphabet! 
Go away a bit and come back again alternate — d’ye 
understand that ? ” 

“Yes, captain,” said Rob. 

“ Very good, my lad, then,” said the captain, relent- 
ing. “ Do it ! ” 

That he might do it the better, Captain Cuttle some- 
times condescended, of an evening, after the shop was 
shut, to rehearse the scene : retiring into the parlor for 
the purpose, as into the lodgings of a supposititious Mac- 
Stinger, and carefully observing the behavior of his 
ally, from the hole of espial he had cut in the wall. 
Rob the Grinder discharged himself of his duty with so 
much exactness and judgment, when thus put to the 
proof, that the captain presented him, at divers times, 
with seven sixpences, in token of satisfaction ; and grad- 
ually felt stealing over his spirit the resignation of a man 
who had made provision for the worst, and taken every 
reasonable precaution against an unrelenting fate. 

Nevertheless, the captain did not tempt ill-fortune, by 
being a whit more venturesome than before. Though 
be con?ide~ed it a point of good-breeding in himself, as a 

VOL. III. 3 


34 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


general friend of the family, to attend Mr. Dombey’s 
wedding (of which he had heard from Mr. Perch), and 
to show that gentleman a pleasant and approving coun- 
tenance from the gallery, he had repaired to the church 
in a hackney cabriolet with both windows up ; and might 
have scrupled even to make that venture, in his dread 
of Mrs. MacStinger, but that the lady’s attendance on 
the ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech rendered it 
peculiarly unlikely that she would be found in commun- 
ion with the Establishment. 

The captain got safe home again, and fell into the or- 
dinary routine of his new life, without encountering any 
more direct alarm from the enemy, than was suggested 
to him by the daily bonnets in the street. But other 
subjects began to lie heavier on the captain’s mind. 
Walter’s ship was still unheard of. No news came of 
old Sol Gills. Florence did not even know of the old 
man’s disappearance, and Captain Cuttle had not the 
heart to tell her. Indeed the captain, as his own hopes 
of the generous, handsome, gallant-hearted youth, whom 
he had loved, according to his rough manner, from a 
child, began to fade, and faded more and more from day 
to day, shrunk with instinctive pain from the thought 
of exchanging a word with Florence. If he had had 
good news to carry to her, the honest captain would 
have braved the newly decorated house and splendid 
furniture — though these connected with the lady he had 
seen at church, were awful to him — and made his way 
into her presence. With a dark horizon gathering around 
their common hopes, however, that darkened every hour, 
the captain almost felt as if he were a new misfortune 
and affliction to her; and was scarcely less afraid of a 
visit from Florence, than from Mrs. MacStinger herself. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


35 


ft was a chill dark autumn evening, and Captain Cut- 
tie had ordered a fire to be kindled in the little back 
parlor, now more than ever like the cabin of a ship. 
The rain fell fast, and the wind blew hard ; and straying 
out on the house-top by that stormy bedroom of his old 
friend, to take an observation of the weather, the cap- 
tain’s heart died within him, when he saw how wild and 
desolate it was. Not that he associated the weather of 
that time with poor Walter’s destiny, or doubted that if 
Providence had doomed him to be lost and shipwrecked, 
it was over, long ago ; but that beneath an outward in- 
fluence, quite distinct from the subject-matter of his 
thoughts, the captain’s spirits sank, and his hopes turned 
pale, as those of wiser men had often done before him, 
and will often do again. 

Captain Cuttle, addressing his face to the sharp wind 
and slanting rain, looked up at the heavy scud that was 
flying fast over the wilderness of house-tops, and looked 
for something cheery there in vain. The prospect near 
at hand was no better. In sundry tea-chests, and other 
rough boxes at his feet, the pigeons of Rob the Grinder 
were cooing like so many dismal breezes getting up. 
A crazy weathercock of a midshipman, with a telescope 
at his eye, once visible from the street, but long bricked 
out, creaked and complained upon his rusty pivot as the 
shrill blast spun him round and round, and sported with 
him cruelly. Upon the captain’s coarse blue vest the 
cold rain-drops started like steel beads ; and he could 
hardly maintain himself aslant against the stiff nor’wes- 
ter that came pressing against him, importunate to topple 
him over the parapet, and throw him on the pavement 
below. If there were any Hope alive that evening, the 
captain thought, as he held his hat on, it certainly kept 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


d6 

house, and wasn’t out of doors ; so the captain, shak- 
ing his head in a despondent manner, went in to look 
for it. 

Captain Cuttle descended slowly to the little back 
parlor, and, seated in his accustomed chair, looked for 
it in the fire ; but it was not there, though the fire was 
bright. He took out his tobacco-box and pipe, and 
composing himself to smoke, looked for it in the red 
glow from the bowl, and in the wreaths of vapor that 
curled upward from his lips ; but there was not so much 
as an atom of the rust of Hope’s anchor in either. He 
tried a glass of grog ; but melancholy truth was at the 
bottom of that well, and he couldn’t finish it. He made 
a turn or two in the shop, and looked for Hope among 
the instruments ; but they obstinately worked out reckon- 
ings for the missing ship, in spite of any opposition he 
could offer, that ended at the bottom of the lone sea. 

The wind still rushing, and the rain still pattering, 
against the closed shutters, the captain brought to before 
the wooden Midshipman upon the counter, and thought, 
as he dried the little officer’s uniform with his sleeve, 
how many years the Midshipman had seen, during which 
few changes — hardly any — had transpired among his 
ship’s company ; how the changes had come all together 
one day, as it might be ; and of what a sweeping kind 
they were. Here was the little society of the back par- 
lor broken up, and scattered far and wide. Here was 
no audience for Lovely Peg, even if there had been 
anybody to sing it, which there was not ; for the captain 
was as morally certain that nobody but he could execute 
that ballad, as he was that he had not the spirit, under 
existing circumstances, to attempt it. There was no 
bright face of u Wal’r ” in the house ; — here the captain 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


37 


transferred his sleeve for a moment from the midship- 
man’s uniform to his own cheek ; — the familiar wig and 
buttons of Sol Gills were a vision of the past ; Rich- 
ard Whittington was knocked on the head ; and every 
plan and project, in connection with the Midshipman, 
lay drifting, without mast or rudder, on the waste of 
waters. 

As the captain, with a dejected face, stood revolving 
these thoughts, and polishing the Midshipman, partly in 
the tenderness of old acquaintance, and partly in the 
absence of his mind, a knocking at the shop-door com- 
municated a frightful start to the frame of Rob the 
Grinder, seated on the counter, whose large eyes had 
been intently fixed on the captain’s face, and who had 
been debating within himself, for the five hundredth 
time, whether the captain could have done a murder, 
that he had such an evil conscience, and was always 
running away. 

“ What’s that ! ” said Captain Cuttle, softly. 

“ Somebody’s knuckles, captain,” answered Rob the 
Grinder. 

The captain, with an abashed and guilty air, immedi- 
ately sneaked on tiptoe to the little parlor and locked 
himself in. Rob, opening the door, would have par- 
leyed with the visitor on the threshold if the visitor had 
come in female guise ; but the figure being of the male 
sex, and Rob’s orders only applying to women, Rob 
held the door open and allowed it to enter : which it 
did very quickly, glad to get out of the driving rain. 

“ A job for Burgess and Co. at any rate,” said the 
visitor looking over his shoulder compassionately at 
bis own legs, which were very wet and covered with 
splashes. “ Oh, how-de-do, Mr. Gills ? ” 


38 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


The salutation, was addressed to the captain, now 
emerging from the back-parlor with a most transpar- 
ent and utterly futile affectation of coming out by ac- 
cident. 

“ Thankee,” the gentleman went on to say in the 
same breath ; “ I’m very well indeed, myself, I’m much 
obliged to you. My name is Toots, — Mister Toots.” 

The captain remembered to have seen this young 
gentleman at the wedding, and made him a bow. Mr. 
Toots replied with a chuckle ; and being embarrassed, 
as he generally was, breathed hard, shook hands with 
the captain for a long time, and then falling on Rob 
the Grinder, in the absence of any other resource, 
shook hands with him in a most affectionate and cor- 
dial manner. 

“ I say ; I should like to speak a word to you, Mr. 
Gills, if you please,” said Toots at length, with surpris- 
ing presence of mind. “ I say ! Miss D. O. M. you 
know ! ” 

The captain, with responsive gravity and mystery, 
immediately waved his hook towards the little parlor, 
whither Mr. Toots followed him. 

“ Oh ! I beg your pardon though,” said Mr. Toots, 
looking up in the captain’s face, as he sat down in a 
chair by the fire, which the captain placed for him ; 
“ you don’t happen to know the Chicken at all ; do you 
Mr. Gills ? ’ 

“ The Chicken ? ” said the captain. 

“ The Game Chicken,” said Mr. Toots. 

The captain shaking his head, Mr. Tocts explained 
that the man alluded to was the celebrated public char- 
acter who had covered himself and his country with 
glory in his contest with the Nobby Shropshire One ; 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


39 


but this piece of information did not appear to enlighten 
the captain very much. 

“ Because he’s outside : that’s all,” said Mr. Toots. 
“ But it’s of no consequence ; he won’t get very wet, 
perhaps.” 

“ I can pass the word for him in a moment,” said the 
captain. 

“ Well, if you would have the goodness to let him sit 
in the shop with your young man,” chuckled Mr. Toots, 
“I should be glad ; because you know, he’s easily of- 
fended, and the damp’s rather bad for his stamina, i’ll 
call him in, Mr. Gills.” 

With that, Mr. Toots, repairing to the shop-door, sent 
a peculiar whistle into the night, which produced a 
stoical gentleman in a shaggy white great-coat and a 
flat-brimmed hat, with very short hair, a broken nose, 
and a considerable tract of bare and sterile country be- 
hind each ear. 

* “ Sit down, Chicken,” said Mr. Toots. 

The compliant Chicken spat out some small pieces of 
straw on which he was regaling himself, and took in a 
fresh supply from a reserve he carried in his hand. 

“ There a’n’t no drain of nothing short handy, is 
there ? ” said the Chicken, generally. “ This here sluic- 
ing night is hard lines to a man as lives on his con- 
dition.” 

Captain Cuttle proffered a glass of rum, which the 
Chicken, throwing back his head, emptied into himself, 
as into a cask, after proposing the brief sentiment, “ Tow- 
ards us ! ” Mr. Toots and the captain returning then 
to the parlor, and taking their seats before the fire, Mr 
Toots began : 

“ Mr. Gills ” — 


40 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Awast ! ” said the captain. “ My name’s Cuttle.” 

Mr. Toots looked greatly disconcerted, while the cap> 
tain proceeded gravely : 

“ Cap’en Cuttle is my name, and England is my na- 
tion, this here is my dwelling-place, and blessed be 
creation — Job,” said the captain, as an index to his 
authority. 

“ Oh ! I couldn’t see Mr. Gills, could I ? ” said Mr. 
Toots ; “ because ” — 

“ If you could see Sol Gills, young gen’l’m’n,” said 
the captain, impressively, and laying his heavy hand on 
Mr. Toots’s knee, “ old Sol, mind you — with your own 
eyes — as you sit there — you’d be welcomer to me, 
than a wind astern, to a ship becalmed. But you can’t 
see Sol Gills. And why can’t you see Sol Gills ? ” said 
the captain, apprised by the face of Mr. Toots that he 
was making a profound impression on that gentleman’s 
mind. “ Because he’s inwisible.” 

Mr. Toots in his agitation was going to reply that it 
was of no consequence at all. But he corrected him- 
self, and said, “ Lor bless me ! ” 

“ That there man,” said the captain, “ has left me in 
charge here by a piece of writing, but though he was 
a’most as good as my sworn brother, I know no more 
where he’s gone, or why he’s gone ; if so be to seek 
his nevy, or if so be along of being not quite settled in 
his mind ; than you do. One morning at daybreak, he 
went over the side,” said the captain, “ without a splash, 
without a ripple. I have looked for that man high and 
low, and never set eyes, nor ears, nor nothing else, upon 
him, from that hour.” 

“ But, good gracious, Miss Dombey don’t know ” — 
Mr. Toots began. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


41 


“Whj, I ask you, as a feeling heart,” said the cap- 
tain, dropping his voice, “ why should she know ? why 
should she be made to know, until such time as there 
warn’t any help for it? She took to old Sol Gills, 
did that sweet creetur, with a kindness, with a affabil- 
ity, with a — what’s the good of saying so ? you know 
her.” 

“I should hope so,” chuckled Mr. Toots, with a con- 
scious blush that suffused his whole countenance. 

“ And you come here from her ? ” said the captain. 

“ I should think so,” chuckled Mr. Toots. 

“ Then all I need observe is,” said the captain, “ that 
you know a angel, and are chartered by a angel.” 

Mr. Toots instantly seized the captain’s hand, and re- 
quested the favor of his friendship. 

“ Upon my word and honor,” said Mr. Toots, earnest- 
ly, “ I should be very much obliged to you if you’d im- 
prove my acquaintance. I should like to know you, 
captain, very much. I really am in want of a friend, I 
am. Little Dombey was my friend at old Blimber’s, 
and would have been now, if he’d have lived. The 
Chicken,” said Mr. Toots, in a forlorn whisper, “ is very 
well — admirable in his way — the sharpest man per- 
haps in the world ; there’s not a move he isn’t up to, 
everybody says so — but I don’t know — he’s not every- 
thing. So she is an angel, captain. If there is an 
angel anywhere, it’s Miss Dombey. That’s what I’ve 
always said. Really though, you know,” said Mr. Toots, 
“ I should be very much obliged to you if you’d culti- 
vate my acquaintance.” 

Captain Cuttle received this proposal in a polite man- 
ner, but still without committing himself to its accept- 
ance ; merely observing, “ Ay, ay, my lad. We shall 


42 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


see, we shall see ; ” and reminding Mr. Toots of his im- 
mediate mission, by inquiring to what he was indebted 
for the honor of that visit. 

“ Why the fact is,” replied Mr. Toots, “ that it’s the 
young woman I come from. Not Miss Dombey — 
Susan you know.” 

The captain nodded his head once, with a grave ex- 
pression of face, indicative of his regarding that young 
woman with serious respect. 

“ And I’ll tell you how it happens,” said Mr. Toots. 
* You know, I go and call sometimes, on Miss Dombey. 
I don’t go there on purpose, you know, but I happen to 
be in the neighborhood very often ; and when I find 
myself there, why — why I call.” 

“ Nat’rally,” observed the captain. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Toots. “ I called this afternoon. 
Upon my word and honor, I don’t think it’s possible to 
form an idea of the angel Miss Dombey was this after- 
noon.” 

The captain answered with a jerk of his head, imply- 
ing that it might not be easy to some people, but was 
quite so, to him. 

“ As I was coming out,” said Mr. Toots, “ the young 
woman, in the most unexpected manner, took me into 
the pantry.” 

The captain seemed, for the moment, to object to this 
proceeding ; and leaning back in his chair, looked at Mr. 
Toots with a distrustful, if not threatening visage. 

“ Where she brought out,” said Mr. Toots, “ this news- 
paper. She told me that she had kept it from Miss 
Dombey all day, on account of something that was in it, 
about somebody that she and Dombey used to know ; 
and then she read the passage to me. Very well. Then 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


43 


she said — wait a minute ; what was it, she said 
though ! ” 

Mr. Toots, endeavoring to concentrate his mental pow- 
ers on this question, unintentionally fixed the captain’s 
eye, and was so much discomposed by its stern expres- 
sion, that his difficulty in resuming the thread of his 
subject was enhanced to a painful extent. 

“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Toots after long consideration. “ Oh, 
ah ! Yes ! She said that she hoped there was a bare 
possibility that it mightn’t be true ; and that as she 
couldn’t very well come out herself, without surprising 
Miss Dombey, would I go down to Mr. Solomon Gills 
the Instrument-maker’s in this street, who was the 
party’s uncle, and ask whether he believed it was true, 
or had heard anything else in the city. She said, if he 
couldn’t speak to me, no doubt Captain Cuttle could. 
By the by ! ” said Mr. Toots, as the discovery flashed 
upon him, “you, you know ! ” 

The captain glanced at the newspaper in Mr. Toots’s 
hand, and breathed short and hurriedly. 

“Well,” pursued Mr. Toots, “the reason why I’m 
rather late is, because I went up as far as Finchley first, 
to get some uncommonly fine chickweed that grows 
there, for Miss Dombey’s bird. But I came on here, 
directly afterwards. You’ve seen the paper, I suppose ?” 

The captain, who had become cautious of reading the 
news, lest he should find himself advertised at full 
length by Mrs. MacStinger, shook his head. 

“ Shall I read the passage to you ? ” inquired Mr. 
Toots. 

The captain making a sign in the affirmative, Mr. 
Toots read as follows, from the Shipping Intelligence : 

“ 4 Southampton. The barque Defiance, Henry James, 


44 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Commander, arrived in this port to-day, with a cargo of 
sugar, coffee, and rum, reports that being becalmed on 
the sixth day of her passage home from Jamaica, in’^ 
in such and such a latitude, you know,” said Mr. Toots, 
after making a feeble dash at the figures, and tumbling 
over them. 

“ Ay ! ” cried the captain, striking his clinched hand 
on the table. “ Heave ahead, my lad ! ” 

“ — latitude,” repeated Mr. Toots, with a startled 
glance at the captain, “ and longitude so-and-so, — ‘ the 
lookout observed, half an hour before sunset, some frag- 
ments of a wreck, drifting at about the distance of a 
mile. The weather being clear, and the barque making 
no way, a boat was hoisted out, with orders to inspect 
the same, when they were found to consist of sundry 
large spars, and a part of the main rigging of an English 
brig, of about five hundred tons burden, together with a 
portion of the stern on which the words and letters 
“ Son and H — ” were yet plainly legible. No vestige 
of any dead body was to be seen upon the floating frag- 
ments. Log of the Defiance states, that a breeze 
springing up in the night, the wreck was seen no more. 
There can be no doubt that all surmises as to the fate of 
the missing vessel, the Son and Heir, port of London, 
bound for Barbadoes, are now set at rest forever ; that 
she broke up in the last hurricane ; and that every soul 
on board perished/ ” 

Captain Cuttle, like all mankind, little knew how 
much hope had survived within him under discourage- 
ment, until he felt its death-shock. During the reading 
of the paragraph, and for a minute or two afterwards, 
he sat with his gaze fixed on the modest Mr. Toots, like 
a man entranced ; then, suddenly rising, and putting on 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


45 


his glazed hat, which, in his visitor’s hono: , he had laid 
upon the table, the captain turned his back, and bent his 
head down on the little chimney-piece. 

“ Oh, upon my word and honor,” cried Mr. Toots, 
whose tender heart was moved by the captain’s unex- 
pected distress, “ this is a most wretched sort of affair 
this world is ! Somebody’s always dying, or going and 
doing something uncomfortable in it. I’m sure I never 
should have looked forward so much, to coming into my 
property, if I had known this. I never saw such a 
world. It’s a great deal worse than Blimber’s.” 

Captain Cuttle, without altering his position, signed to 
Mr. Toots not to mind him ; and presently turned round, 
with his glazed hat thrust back upon his ears, and his 
hand composing and smoothing his brown faoe. 

44 Wal’r, my dear lad,” said the captain, 44 farewell ! 
Wal’r, my child, my boy, and man, I loved you ! He 
warn’t my flesh and blood,” said the captain, looking at 
the fire — 44 1 a’n’t got none — but something of what a 
father feels when he loses a son, I feel in losing Wal’r. 
For why ? ” said the captain. 44 Because it a’n’t one 
loss, but a round dozen. Where’s that there young 
schoolboy with the rosy face and curly hair, that used to 
be as merry in this here parlor, come round every week, 
as a piece of music? Gone down with Wal’r. Where’s 
that there fresh lad, that nothing couldn’t tire nor put 
out, and that sparkled up and blushed so, when we joked 
him about Heart’s Delight, that he was beautiful to look 
at ? Gone down with Wal’r. Where’s that there man’s 
spirit, all afire, that wouldn’t see the old man hove down 
for a minute, and cared nothing for itself? Gone down 
with Wal’r. It a’n’t one Wal’r. There was a dozen 
Wal’rs that I know’d and loved, all holding round his 


46 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


neck when he went down, and they’re a-holding round 
mine now ! ” 

Mr. Toots sat silent : folding and refolding the news- 
paper as small as possible upon his knee. 

“And Sol Gills,” said the captain, gazing at the fire, 
“ poor nevyless old Sol, where are you got to ! you was 
left in charge of me ; his last words was, ‘ Take care of 
my uncle.’ What came over you , Sol, when you went 
and gave the go-by to Ned Cuttle ; and what am I to 
put in my accounts that lie’s a-looking down upon, re- 
specting you ! Sol Gills, Sol Gills ! ” said the captain, 
shaking his head slowly, “catch sight of that there 
newspaper, away from home, with no one as know r ’d 
Wal’r by, to say a word ; and broadside-to you broach, 
and down you pitch, head-foremost ! ” 

Drawing a heavy sigh, the captain turned to Mr. 
Toots, and roused himself to a sustained consciousness 
of that gentleman’s presence. 

“ My lad,” said the captain, “ you must tell the young 
woman honestly that this here fatal news is too correct. 
They don’t romance, you see, on such pints. It’s en 
tered on the ship’s log, and that’s the truest book as a 
man can write. To-morrow morning,” said the captain, 
“I’ll step out and make inquiries; but they’ll lead to nc 
good. They can’t do it. If you’ll give me a look-in in 
the forenoon, you shall know what I have heerd ; but 
tell the young woman from Cap’en Cuttle, that it’s over. 
Over ! ” And the captain, hooking off his glazed hat, 
pulled his handkerchief out of the crown, wiped his griz- 
zled head despairingly, and tossed the handkerchief in 
again, with the indifference of deep dejection. 

“ Oh ! I assure you,” said Mr. Toots, “ really 1 am 
dreadfully sorry. Upon my word I am, though I wasn’t 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


47 


acquainted with the party. Do you think Miss Dombey 
will be very much affected, Captain Gills — I mean Mr. 
Cuttle ? ” 

“ Why, Lord love you,” returned the captain, with 
something of compassion for Mr. Toots’s innocence. 
“ When she warn’t no higher than that, they were as 
fond of one another as two young doves.” 

“Were they though!” said Mr. Toots, with a con- 
siderably lengthened face. 

“They were made for one another,” said the captain, 
mournfully ; “ but what signifies that now ? ” 

“ Upon my word and honor,” cried Mr. Toots, blurt- 
ing out his words through a singular combination of 
awkward chuckles and emotion, “I’m even more sorry 
than I was before. You know, Captain Gills, I — I 
positively adore Miss Dombey ; — I — I am perfectly 
sore with loving her;” the burst with which this con- 
fession forced itself out of the unhappy Mr. Toots, be- 
spoke the vehemence of his feelings ; “ but what would 
be the good of my regarding her in this manner, if I 
wasn’t truly sorry for her feeling pain, whatever was the 
cause of it. Mine a’n’t a selfish affection, you know,” 
said Mr. Toots, in the confidence engendered by his 
having been a witness of the captain’s tenderness. “ It’s 
the sort of thing with me, Captain Gills, that if I could 
be run over — or — or trampled upon — or — or thrown 
off a very high place — or anything of that sort — for 
Miss Dombey’s sake, it would be the most delightful 
thing that could happen to me.” 

All this, Mr. Toots said in a suppressed voice, to pre • 
vent its reaching the jealous ears of the Chicken, who 
objected to the softer emotions ; which effort of restraint, 
coupled with the intensity of his feelings, made him red 


48 


30MBEY AND SON. 


to the tips of his ears, and caused him to present such an 
affecting spectacle of disinterested love to the eyes of 
Captain Cuttle, that the good captain patted him con- 
solingly on the back, and bade him cheer up. 

“ Thank’ee, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “ it’s kind 
of you, in the midst of your own troubles, to say so. 
I’m very much obliged to you. As I said before, I 
really want a friend, and should be glad to have your 
acquaintance. Although I am very well off,” said Mr. 
Toots, with energy, “you can’t think what a miserable 
beast I am. The hollow crowd, you know, when they 
see me with the Chicken, and characters of distinction 
like that, suppose me to be happy ; but I’m wretched. 
I suffer for Miss Dombey, Captain Gills. I can’t get 
through my meals ; I have no pleasure in my tailor ; I 
often cry when I’m alone. I assure you it’ll be a satis- 
faction to me to come back to-morrow, or to come back 
fifty times.” 

Mr. Toots, with these words, shook the captain’s hand; 
and disguising such traces of his agitation as could be 
disguised on so short a notice, before the Chicken’s pene- 
trating glance, rejoined that eminent gentleman in the 
shop. The Chicken, who was apt to be jealous of his 
ascendancy, eyed Captain Cuttle with anything but fa- 
vor as he took leave of Mr. Toots ; but followed his 
patron without being otherwise demonstrative of his ill- 
will ; leaving the captain oppressed with sorrow ; and 
Rob the Grinder elevated with joy, on account of hav- 
ing had the honor of staring for nearly half an hour, at 
the conqueror of the Nobby Shropshire One. 

Long after Rob was fast asleep in his bed under the 
counter, the captain sat looking at the fire ; and long 
after there was no fire to look at, the captain sat gazing 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


49 


an the rusty bars, with unavailing thoughts of Walter 
and old Sol crowding through his mind. Retirement to 
the stormy chamber at the top of the house brought no 
rest with it ; and the captain rose up in the morning, 
sorrowful and unrefreshed. 

As soon as the city offices were open, the captain 
issued forth to the counting-house of Dombey and Son, 
But there was no opening of the Midshipman’s windows 
that morning. Rob the Grinder, by the captain’s orders, 
left the shutters closed, and the house was as a house of 
death. 

It chanced that Mr. Carker was entering the office, as 
Captain Cuttle arrived at the door. Receiving the man- 
ager’s benison gravely and silently, Captain Cuttle made 
bold to accompany him into his own room. 

“ Well, Captain Cuttle,” said Mr. Carker, taking up 
his usual position before the fireplace, and keeping on 
his hat, “ this is a bad business.” 

“ You have received the news as was in print yester- 
day, sir?” said the captain. 

Yes,” said Mr. Carker, “ we have received it ! It 
was accurately stated. The underwriters suffer a con- 
siderable loss. We are very sorry. No help 1 Such is 
life ! ” 

Mr. Carker pared his nails delicately with a penknife, 
and smiled at the captain, who was standing by the door 
looking at him. 

“ I excessively regret poor Gay,” said Carker, “ and 
the crew. I understand there were some of our very 
best men among ’em. It always happens so. Many 
men with families too. A comfort to reflect that poor 
Gay had no family, Captain Cuttle ! ” 

The captain stood rubbing his chin, and looking at the 
vol. hi. 4 


60 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


manager. The manager glanced at the unopened letters 
lying on his desk, and took up the newspaper. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, Captain Cut- 
tie ? ” he asked, looking off it, with a smiling and ex- 
pressive glance at the door. 

“ I wish you could set my mind at rest, sir, on some- 
thing it’s uneasy about,” returned the captain. 

“ Ay ! ” exclaimed the manager, “ what’s that? Come, 
Captain Cuttle, I must trouble you to be quick, if you 
please. I am much engaged.” 

“ Look’ee here, sir,” said the captain, advancing a 
step. “ Afore my friend Wal’r went on this here dis- 
astrous voyage ” — 

“ Come, come, Captain Cuttle,” interposed the smiling 
manager, “ don’t talk about disastrous voyages in fhat 
way. We have nothing to do with disastrous voyages 
here, my good fellow. You must have begun very earl)’ 
on your day’s allowance, captain, if you don’t remember 
that there are hazards in all voyages whether by sea or 
land. You are not made uneasy by the supposition that 
young what’s-his-name was lost in bad weather that was 
got up against him in these offices — are you? Fie, 
captain ! Sleep, and soda-water, are the best cures for 
such uneasiness as that.” 

“My lad,” returned the captain, slowly — “you are 
a’most a lad to me, and so I don’t ask your pardon for 
that slip of a word, — if you find any pleasure in this 
here sport, you a’n’t the gentleman I took you for, and 
if you a’n’t the gentleman I took you for, may be my 
mind has call to be uneasy. Now this is what it is, Mr. 
Carker. — Afore that poor lad went away, according to 
orders, he told me that he wara’t a-going away for his 
own good, or for promotion, he know’d. It was my be« 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


51 


lief that he was wrong, and I told him so, and I come 
here, your head governor being absent, to ask a question 
or two of you in a civil way, for my own satisfaction. 
Them questions you answered — free. Now it’ll ease 
my mind to know, when all is over, as it is, and when 
what can’t be cured must be endoored — for which, as a 
scholar, you’ll overhaul the book it’s in, and thereof make 
a note — to know once more, in a word, that I warn’t 
mistaken ; that I warn’t back’ard in my duty when I 
didn’t tell the old man what Wal’r told me ; and that the 
wind was truly in his sail, when he highsted of it for 
Barbadoes Harbor. Mr. Carker,” said the captain, in 
the goodness of his nature, “ when I was here last, we 
was very pleasant together. If I a’n’t been altogether 
so pleasant myself this morning, on account of this poor 
lad, and if I have chafed again’ any observation of yours 
that I might have fended off, my name is Ed’ard Cuttle, 
and I ask your pardon.” 

“ Captain Cuttle,” returned the manager, with all pos- 
sible politeness, “ I must ask you to do me a favor.” 

“ And what is it, sir ? ” inquired the captain. 

“ To have the goodness to walk off, if you please,” 
rejoined the manager, stretching forth his arm, “ and to 
carry your jargon somewhere else.” 

Every knob in the captain’s face turned white with 
astonishment and indignation ; even the red rim on his 
forehead faded, like a rainbow among the gathering 
clouds. 

“I tell you what, Captain Cuttle,” said the manager, 
shaking his forefinger at him, and showing him all his 
teeth, but still amiably smiling, U I was much too lenient 
with you when you came here before. You belong to 
an artful and audacious set of people. In my desire to 


52 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


save young what’s-his-name from being kicked out of 
this place, neck and crop, my good captain, I tolerated 
you j but for once, and only once* Now go, my 
friend ! h 

The captain was absolutely rooted to the ground, and 
speechless. 

“ Go,” said the good-humored manager, gathering up 
his skirts, and standing astride upon the hearth-rug, 
“ like a sensible fellow, and let us have no turning out, 
or any such violent measures. If Mr. Dombey were 
here, captain, you might be obliged to leave in a more 
ignominious manner, possibly. I merely say, Go ! ” 

The captain, laying his ponderous hand upon his chest, 
to assist himself in fetching a deep breath, looked at Mr. 
Carker from head to foot, and looked round the little 
room, as if he did not clearly understand where he was, 
or in what company. 

“ You are deep, Captain Cuttle,” pursued Carker, with 
the easy and vivacious frankness of a man of the world 
who knew the world too well to be ruffled by any dis- 
covery of misdoing, when it did not immediately concern 
himself ; “ but you are not quite out of soundings, either 
— neither you nor your absent friend, captain. What 
have you done with your absent friend, hey ? ” 

Again the captain laid his hand upon his chest. After 
drawing another deep breath, he conjured himself to 
“stand by?” But in a whisper. 

“ You hatch nice little plots, and hold nice little coun- 
cils, and make nice little appointments, and receive nice 
little visitors, too, captain, hey?” said Carker, bending 
his brows upon him, without showing his teeth any the 
less : “but it’s a bold measure to come here afterwards. 
Not like your discretion ! You conspirators, and hiders, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


53 


and runners-away, should know better than that. Will 
you oblige me by going ? ” 

“ My lad,” gasped the captain, in a choked and trem- 
bling voice, and with a curious action going on in the 
ponderous fist ; “ there’s a many words I could wish to 
say to you, but I don’t rightly know where they’re 
stowed just at present. My young friend, Wal’r, was 
drownded only last night, according to my reckoning, 
and it puts me out, you see. But you and me will come 
alongside o’ one another again, my lad,” said the captain, 
holding up his hook, “ if we live.” 

“ It will be anything but shrewd in you, my good fel- 
low, if we do,” returned the manager, with the same 
frankness ; “ for you may rely, I give you fair warning, 
upon my detecting and exposing you. I don’t pretend 
to be a more moral man than my neighbors, my good 
captain ; but the confidence of this House, or of any 
member of this House, is not to be abused and under- 
mined while I have eyes and ears. Good-day ! ” said 
Mr. Carker, nodding his head. 

Captain Cuttle, looking at him steadily (Mr. Carker 
looked full as steadily at the captain), went out of the 
office and left him standing astride before the fire, as 
calm and pleasant as if there were no more spots upon 
his soul than on his pure white linen, and his smooth 
sleek skin. 

The captain glanced, in passing through the outer 
counting-house, at the desk where he knew poor Walter 
had been used to sit, now occupied by another young 
boy, with a face almost as fresh and hopeful as his on 
'die day when they tapped the famous last bottle but one 
of the old Madeira, in the little back-parlor. The asso- 
ciation of ideas, thus awakened, did the captain a great 


54 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


deal of good ; it softened him in the very height of his 
anger, and brought the tears into his eyes. 

Arrived at the wooden Midshipman's again, and sitting 
down in a corner of the dark shop, the captain's indigna- 
tion, strong as it was, could make no head against his 
grief. Passion seemed not only to do wrong and vio- 
lence to the memory of the dead, but to be infected by 
death, and to droop and decline beside it. All the living 
knaves and liars in the world, were nothing to the hon- 
esty and truth of one dear friend. 

The only thing the honest captain made out clearly, 
in this state of mind, besides the loss of Walter was, 
that with him almost the whole world of Captain Cuttle 
had been drowned. If he reproached himself some- 
times, and keenly too, for having ever connived at Wal- 
ter's innocent deceit, he thought at least as often of the 
Mr. Carker whom no sea could ever render up ; and the 
Mr. Dombey, whom he now began to perceive was as 
far beyond human recall ; and the “ Heart’s Delight,” 
with whom he must never foregather again ; and the 
Lovely Peg, that teak-built and trim ballad, that had 
gone ashore upon a rock, and split into mere planks 
and beams of rhyme. The captain sat in the dark shop, 
thinking of these things, to the entire exclusion of his 
own injury; and looking with as sad an eye upon the 
ground, as if in contemplation of their actual fragments 
as they floated past him. 

But the captain was not unmindful, for all that, of such 
decent and respectful observances in memory of poor 
Walter, as he felt within his power. Rousing himself, 
and rousing Rob the Grinder (who in the unnatural 
twilight was fast asleep), the captain sallied forth with 
his attendant at his heels, and the loor-key in his pocket, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


55 


and repairing to one of those convenient slop-selling 
establishments of which there is abundant choice at the 
eastern end of London, purchased on the spot two suits 
of mourning — one for Rob the Grinder, which was im- 
mensely too small, and one for himself, which was im- 
mensely too large. He also provided Rob with a species of 
hat, greatly to be admired for its symmetry and usefulness, 
as well as for a happy blending of the mariner with the 
coal-heaver ; which is usually termed a sou’wester ; and 
which was something of a novelty in connection with the 
instrument business. In their several garments, which 
the vendor declared to be such a miracle in point of fit 
as nothing but a rare combination of fortuitous circum- 
stances ever brought about, and the fashion of which 
was unparalleled within the memory of the oldest in- 
habitant, the captain and Grinder immediately arrayed 
themselves: presenting a spectacle fraught with wonder 
to all who beheld it. 

In this altered form, the captain received Mr. Toots. 
“ I’m took aback, my lad, at present,” said the captain, 
“and will only confirm that there ill news. Tell the 
young woman to break it gentle to the young lady, and 
for neither of ’em never to think of me no more — 
’special, mind you, that is — though I will think of 
them, when night comes on a hurricane and seas is 
mountains rowling, for which overhaul your Doctor 
Watts, brother, and when found make a note on.” 

The captain reserved, until some fitter time, the con- 
sideration of Mr. Toots’s offer of friendship, and thus 
dismissed him. Captain Cuttle’s spirits were so low, in 
truth, that he half determined, that day, to take no fur- 
ther precautions against surprise from Mrs. MacStinger, 
but to abandon himself recklessly to chance, and be indif- 


56 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ferent to what might happen. As evening came on, he 
fell into a better frame of mind, however; and spoke 
much of Walter to Rob the Grinder, whose attention 
and fidelity he likewise incidentally commended. Rob 
did not blush to hear the captain earnest in his praises, 
but sat staring at him, and affecting to snivel with sym- 
pathy, and making a feint of being virtuous, and treas- 
uring up every word he said (like a young spy as he 
was) with very promising deceit. 

When Rob had turned in, and was fast asleep, the 
captain trimmed the candle, put on his spectacles — he 
had felt it appropriate to take to spectacles on entering 
into the Instrument Trade, though his eyes were like a 
hawk’s — and opened the prayer-book at the Burial Ser- 
vice. And reading softly to himself, in the little back- 
parlor, and stopping now and then to wipe his eyes, the 
captain, in a true and simple spirit, committed Walter’s 
body to the deep. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


57 


CHAPTER XXXIH. 

CONTRASTS. 

Turn we our eyes upon two homes ; not lying side 
by side, but wide apart, though both within easy range 
and reach of the great city of London. 

The first is situated in the green and wooded country 
near Norwood. It is not a mansion ; it is of no preten- 
sions as to size ; but it is beautifully arranged, and taste- 
fully kept. The lawn, the soft, smooth slope, the flower- 
garden, the clumps of trees where graceful forms of ash 
and willow are not wanting, the conservatory, the rustic 
veranda with sweet-smelling creeping plants entwined 
about the pillars, the simple exterior of the house, the 
well-ordered offices, though all upon the diminutive 
scale proper to a mere cottage, bespeak an amount of 
elegant comfort within, that might serve for a palace. 
This indication is not without warrant ; for, within it is 
a house of refinement and luxury. Rich colors, excel- 
lently blended, meet the eye at every turn ; in the fur- 
niture — its proportions admirably devised to suit the 
shapes and sizes of the small rooms ; on the walls ; upon 
the floors ; tinging and subduing the light that comes in 
through the odd glass-doors and windows here and there. 
There are a few choice prints and pictures, too ; in 
quaint nooks and recesses there is no want of books ; 


58 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and there are games of skill and chance ;et forth on 
tables — fantastic chessmen, dice, backgammon, cards, 
and billiards. 

And yet, amidst this opulence of comfort, there is 
something in the general air that is not well. Is it that 
the carpets and the cushions are too soft and noiseless, so 
that those who move or repose among them seem to act 
by stealth ! Is it that the prints and pictures do not 
commemorate great thoughts or deeds, or render nature 
in the poetry of landscape, hall, or hut, but are of one 
voluptuous cast — mere shows of form and color — and 
no more ? Is it that the books have all their gold out- 
side, and that the titles of the greater part qualify them 
to be companions of the prints and pictures ? Is it that 
the completeness and the beauty of the place is here and 
there belied by an affectation of humility, in some unim- 
portant and inexpensive regard, which is as false as the 
face of the too truly painted portrait hanging yonder, or 
its original at breakfast in his easy-chair below it ? Or is 
it that, with the daily breath of that original and master 
of all here, there issues forth some subtle portion of him- 
self, which gives a vague expression of himself to every- 
thing about him ? 

It is Mr. Carker the manager who sits in the easy- 
chair. A gaudy parrot in a burnished cage upon the 
table tears at the wires with her beak, and goes walking, 
upside down, in its dome-top, shaking her house and 
screeching ; but Mr. Carker is indifferent to the bird, 
anl looks with a musing smile at a picture on the op- 
posite wall. 

“ A most extraordinary accidental likeness, certainly,” 
says he. 

Perhaps it is a Juno; perhaps a Potiphar’s wife; 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


59 


perhaps some scornful nymph — according as the Pic- 
ture dealers found the market, when they christened it. 
It is the figure of a woman, supremely handsome, who, 
turning away, but with her face addressed to the spec- 
tator, flashes her proud glance upon him. 

It is like Edith. 

With a passing gesture of his hand at the picture — 
what ! a menace? No; yet something like it. A wave 
as if triumph ? No ; yet more like that. An insolent 
salute wafted from his lips ? No ; yet like that too — he 
resumes his breakfast, and calls to the chafing and im- 
prisoned bird, who, coming down into a pendant gilded 
hoop within the cage, like a great wedding-ring, swings 
in it, for his delight. 

The second home is on the other side of London, near 
to where the busy great north road of bygone days is 
silent and almost deserted, except by wayfarers who toil 
along on foot. It is a poor, small house, barely and 
sparely furnished, but very clean ; and there is even an 
attempt to decorate it, shown in the homely flowers 
trained about the porch and in the narrow garden. The 
neighborhood in which it stands has as little of the coun- 
try to recommend it, as it has of the town. It is neither 
of the town or country. The former, like the giant in 
his travelling boots, has made a stride and passed it, and 
has set his brick-and-mortar heel a long way in advance ; 
but the intermediate space between the giant’s feet, as 
yet, is only blighted country, and not town ; and here, 
among a few tall chimneys belching smoke all day and 
night, and among the brick-fields and the lanes where 
turf is cut, and where the fences tumble down, and where 
the dusty nettles grow, and where a scrap or two of hedge 
may yet be seen, and where the bird-catcher still comes 


60 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


occasionally, though he swears every time to come no 
more — this second home is to be found. 

She who inhabits it, is she who left the first in her 
devotion to an outcast brother. She withdrew from that 
home its redeeming spirit, and from its master’s breast 
his solitary angel : but though his liking for her is gone, 
after this ungrateful slight as he considers it ; and though 
he abandons her altogether in return, an old idea of her 
is not quite forgotten even by him. Let her flower- 
garden, in which he never sets his foot, but which is yet 
maintained, among all his costly alterations, as if she had 
quitted it but yesterday, bear witness ! 

Harriet Carker has changed since then, and on her 
beauty there has fallen a heavier shade than Time of 
his unassisted self can cast, all-potent as he is — the 
shadow of anxiety and sorrow, and the daily struggle of 
a poor existence. But it is beauty still ; and still a 
gentle, quiet, and retiring beauty that must be sought 
out, for it cannot vaunt itself; if it could, it would be 
what it is, no more. 

Yes. This slight, small, patient figure, neatly dressed 
in homely stuffs, and indicating nothing but the dull, 
household virtues, that have so little in common with the 
received idea of heroism and greatness, unless, indeed, 
any ray of them should shine through the lives of the 
great ones of the earth, when it becomes a constellation 
and is tracked in heaven straightway — this slight, small, 
patient figure, leaning on the man still young but worn 
and gray, is she his sister, who, of all the world, went 
over to him in his shame and put her hand in his, and 
with a sweet composure and determination, led him 
hopefully upon his barren way. 

“ It is early, John,” she said. “ Why do you go so 
early ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


61 


“Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I 
have the time to spare, I should like, I think — it’s a 
fancy — to walk once by the house where I took leave 
of him.” 

“ I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.” 

“ It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate.” 

But I could not regret it more, though I had known 
him. Is not your sorrow mine ? And if I had, perhaps 
you would feel that I was a better companion to you in 
speaking about him, than I may seem now.” 

“ My dearest sister ! Is there anything within the 
range of rejoicing or regret, in which I am not sure of 
your companionship ? ” 

“ I hope you think not, John, for surely there is noth- 
ing ! ” 

“ How could you be better to me, or nearer to me 
then, than you are in this, or anything ? ” said her 
brother. “ I feel that you did know him, Harriet, and 
that you shared my feelings towards him.” 

She drew the hand which had been resting on his 
shoulder, round his neck, and answered, with some hesi- 
tation : 

“ No, not quite.” 

“ True, true,” he said ; “ you think I might have done 
him no harm if I had allowed myself to know him bet- 
ter ? ” 

“ Think ! I know it.” 

“ Designedly, Heaven know r s I would not,” he replied, 
shaking his head mournfully : “ but his reputation was 
too precious to be perilled by such association. Whether 
you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear ” — 

“ I do not,” she said quietly. 

“ It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter 


G*2 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


when I think of him for that which made it so much 
heavier then.” He checked himself in his tone of mel- 
ancholy, and smiled upon her as he said “ Good-by.” 

“ Good-by, dear John ! In the evening, at the old 
time and place, I shall meet you as usual on your way 
home. Good-by.” 

The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was 
his home, his life, his universe, and yet it was a portion 
of his punishment and grief ; for in the cloud he saw 
upon it — though serene and calm as any radiant cloud 
at sunset — and in the constancy and devotion of her 
life, and in the sacrifice she had made of ease, enjoy- 
ment, and hope, he saw the bitter fruits of his old crime, 
forever ripe and fresh. 

She stood at the door looking after him, with her 
hands loosely clasped in each other, as he made his way 
over the frowsy and uneven patch of ground which lay 
before their house, which had once (and not long ago) 
been a pleasant meadow, and was now a very waste, 
with a disorderly crop of beginnings of mean houses, 
rising out of the rubbish, as if they had been unskilfully 
sown there. Whenever he looked back — as once or 
twice he did — her cordial face shone like a light upon 
his heart ; but when he plodded on his way, and saw her 
not, the tears were in her eyes as she stood watching 
him. 

Her pensive form was not long idle at the door. 
There was daily duty to discharge, and daily work to 
do — for such commonplace spirits that are not heroic, 
often work hard with their hands — and Harriet was 
soon busy with her household tasks. These discharged, 
and the poor house made quite neat and orderly, she 
counted her little stock of money with an anxious face, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


63 


and went out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries for 
their table, planning and contriving, as she went, how 
to save. So sordid are the lives of such low natures, 
who are not only not heroic to their valets and waiting- 
women, but have neither valets nor waiting- women to be 
heroic to withal ! 

While she was absent, and there was no one in the 
house, there approached it by a different way from that 
the brother had t^ken, a gentleman, a very little past 
his prime of life perhaps, but of a healthy florid hue, 
an upright presence, and a bright clear aspect, that was 
gracious and good-humored. His eyebrows were still 
black, and so was much of his hair ; the sprinkling of 
gray observable among the latter, graced the former 
very much, and showed his broad frank brow and hon- 
est eyes to great advantage. 

After knocking once at the door, and obtaining no re- 
sponse, this gentleman sat down on a bench in the little 
porch to wait. A certain skilful action of his fingers as 
he hummed some bars, and beat time on the seat beside 
him, seemed to denote the musician ; and the extraor- 
dinary satisfaction he derived from humming something 
very slow and long, which had no recognizable tune, 
seemed to denote that he was a scientific one. 

The gentleman was still twirling a theme, which 
seemed to go round and round and round, and in and 
in and in, and to involve itself like a corkscrew twirled 
upon a table, without getting any nearer to anything, 
when Harriet appeared returning. He rose up as she 
advanced, and stood with his head uncovered. 

“ You are come again, sir ! ” she said, faltering. 

“ I take that liberty,” he answered. “ May I ask for 
five minutes of your leisure ? ” 


64 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door, and 
gave him admission to the little parlor. The gentleman 
sat down there, drew his chair to the table over against 
her, and said, in a voice that perfectly corresponded to 
his appearance, and with a simplicity that was very 
engaging : 

“ Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. You signified 
to me, when I called t’other morning, that you were. 
Pardon me, if I say that I looked into your face while 
you spoke, and that it contradicted you. I look into 
it again,” he added, laying his hand gently on her arm, 
for an instant, “ and it contradicts you more and more.” 

She was somewhat confused and agitated, and could 
make no ready answer. 

“ It is the mirror of truth,” said her visitor, “ and 
gentleness. Excuse my trusting to it, and returning.” 

His manner of saying these words, divested them en- 
tirely of the character of compliments. It was so plain, 
grave, unaffected, and sincere, that she bent her head, 
as if at once to thank him and acknowledge his sin- 
cerity. 

“ The disparity between our ages,” said the gentle- 
man, “ and the plainness of my purpose, empower me, 
I am glad to think, to speak my mind. That is my 
mind ; and so you see me for the second time.” 

“ There is a kind of pride, sir,” she returned, after a 
moment’s silence, “or what may be supposed to bo pride, 
which is mere duty. I hope I cherish no other.” 

“ For yourself,” he said. 

“ For myself.” 

“But — pardon me” — suggested the gentleman. 
* For your brother John ? ” 

“ Proud of his love, I am,” said Harriet, looking full 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


65 


upon her visitor, and changing her manner on the in- 
stant — not that it was less composed and quiet, but that 
there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it that made 
the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, 
“ and proud of him. Sir, you who strangely know the 
story of his life, and repeated it to me when you were 
here last ” — 

“ Merely to make my way into your confidence,” in- 
terposed the gentleman. “ For Heaven’s sake, don’t sup- 
pose ” — 

“ I am sure,” she said, “ you revived it, in my hear- 
ing, with a kind and good purpose. I am quite sure 
of it.” 

“ I thank you,” returned her visitor, pressing her hand 
hastily. “ I am much obliged to you. You do me jus- 
tice, I assure you. You were going to say, that I, who 
know the story of John Carker’s life ” — 

“ May think it pride in me,” she continued, “ when I 
say that I am proud of him ! I am* You know the 
time was, when I was not — when I could not be — but 
that is past. The humility of many years, the uncom- 
plaining expiation, the true repentance, the terrible re- 
gret, the pain I know he has even in my affection, which 
he thinks has cost me dear, though Heaven knows I am 
happy, but for his sorrow ! — oh sir, after what I have 
seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of 
power, and are ever wronged, never, for any wrong, in- 
flict a punishment that cannot be recalled ; while there 
is a God above us to work changes in the hearts He 
made.” 

“Your bi other is an altered man,” returned the gentle- 
man, compassionately. “ I assure you, I don’t doubt it.” 

“ He was an altered man when he did wrong,” said 
VOL. in. 5 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


66 

Harriet. “ He is an altered man again, and is his true 
self now, believe me, sir.” 

“ But we go on,” said her visitor, rubbing his fore- 
head, in an absent manner, with his hand, and then 
drumming thoughtfully on the table, “ we go on in our 
clock-work routine, from day to day, and can’t make out, 
or follow, these changes. They — they’re a metaphysi- 
cal sort of thing. We — we haven’t leisure for it. We 
— we haven’t courage. They’re not taught at schools 
or colleges, and we don’t know how to set about it. In 
short, we are so d d business-like,” said the gentle- 

man, walking to the window, and back, and sitting down 
again, in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vex- 
ation. 

“ I am sure,” said the gentleman, rubbing his fore- 
head again, and drumming on the table as before ; “ I 
have good reason to believe that a jog-trot life, the same 
from day to day, would reconcile one to anything. One 
don’t see anything, one don’t hear anything, one don’t 
know anything; that’s the fact. We go on taking every- 
thing for granted, and so we go on, until whatever we 
do, good, bad, or indifferent, we do from habit. Habit is 
all I shall have to report, when I am called upon to 
plead to my conscience on my death-bed. ‘ Habit,’ says 
I ; ‘ I was deaf, dumb, blind, and paralytic, to a million 
things, from habit.’ 4 Very business-like indeed, Mr. 
What’s-your-name,’ says Conscience, 6 but it won’t do 
here ! ’ ” 

The gentleman got up and walked to the window 
again and back : seriously uneasy, though giving his 
uneasiness this peculiar expression. 

“ Miss Harriet,” he said, resuming his chair, “ 1 
wish you would let me serve you. Look at me ; I 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


67 


ought to look honest, for I know I am io, at present. 
Do I ? ” 

44 Yes,” she answered with a smile. 

44 1 believe every word you have said,” he returned. 
^ I am full of self-reproach that I might have known 
this and seen this, and known you and seen you, any 
time these dozen years, and that I never have. I hardly 
know how I ever got here — creature that I am, not 
only of my own habit, but of other people’s ! But hav- 
ing done so, let me do something. 1 ask it in all honor 
and respect. You inspire me with both, in the highest 
degree. Let me do something.” 

44 We are contented, sir.” 

44 No, no, not quite,” returned the gentleman. 44 1 
think not quite. There are some little comforts that 
might smooth your life, and his. And his ! ” he re- 
peated, fancying that had made some impression on her. 
44 1 have been in the habit of thinking that there was 
nothing wanting to be done for him ; that it was all 
settled and over; in short, of not thinking at all about 
it. I am different now. Let me do something for him. 
You too,” said the visitor, with careful delicacy, 44 have 
need to watch your health closely, for his sake, and I 
fear it fails.” 

44 Whoever you may be, sir,” answered Harriet, rais- 
ing her eyes to his face, 44 1 am deeply grateful to you. 
I feel certain that in all you say, you have no object in 
the world but kindness to us. But years have passed 
since we began this life ; and to take from my brother 
any part of what has so endeared him to me, and so 
proved his better resolution — any fragment of the 
merit of his unassisted, obscure, and forgotten repara- 
tion — would be to diminish the comfort it will be to 


68 DOMBEY AND SON. 

him and me, when that time comes to each of us, of 
which you spoke just now. I thank you better with 
these tears than any words. Believe it, pray.” 

The gentleman was moved, and put the hand she held 
out to his lips, much as a tender father might kiss the 
hand of a dutiful child. But more reverently. 

“ If the day should ever come,” said Harriet, “ when 
he is restored, in part, to the position he lost”-— r 

“ Restored ! ” cried the gentleman, quickly, “ IIow 
can that be hoped for? In whose hands does the 
power of any restoration lie ? It is no mistake of 
mine, surely, to suppose that his having gained the 
priceless blessing of his life, is one cause of the ani- 
mosity shown to him by his brother.” 

“ You touch upon a subject that is never breathed be- 
tween us ; not even between us,” said Harriet. 

“ I beg your forgiveness,” said the visitor. “ I should 
have known it. I entreat you to forget that I have done 
so, inadvertently. And now, as I dare urge no more — 
as I am not sure that I have a right to do so — though 
Heaven knows, even that doubt may be habit,” said the 
gentleman, rubbing his head, as despondently as before, 
u let me ; though a stranger, yet no stranger ; ask two 
favors.” 

“ What are they ? ” she inquired. 

“ The first, that if you should see cause to change 
your resolution, you will suffer me to be as your right 
hand. My name shall then be at your service ; it is 
useless now, and always insignificant.” 

“ Our choice of friends,” she answered, smiling faintly, 
'■* is not so great, that I need any time for consideration. 
I can promise that.” 

“ The second, that you will allow me sometimes, say 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


69 


every Monday morning, at nine o’clock — habit again — 
I must be business-like,” said the gentleman, with a 
whimsical inclination to quarrel with himself on that 
head, “ in walking past, to see you at the door or win- 
dow. I don’t ask to come in, as your brother will be 
gone out at that hour. I don’t ask to speak to you. I 
merely ask to see, for the satisfaction of my own mind, 
that you are well, and without intrusion to remind you, 
by the sight of me, that you have a friend— an elderly 
friend, gray-haired already, and fast growing grayer — 
whom you may ever command.” 

The cordial face looked up in his ; confided in it ; and 
promised. 

“ I understand, as before,” said the gentleman, rising, 
“ that you purpose not to mention my visit to John 
Carker, lest he should be at all distressed by my ac- 
quaintance with his history. I am glad of it, for it is 
out of the ordinary course of things, and — habit again!” 
said the gentleman, checking himself impatiently, “ as if 
there were no better course than the ordinary course!” 

With that he turned to go, and walking, bare-headed, 
to the outside of the little porch, took leave of her with 
such a happy mixture of unconstrained respect and un- 
affected interest, as no breeding could have taught, r.o 
truth mistrusted, and nothing but a pure and single heart 
e xpressed. 

Many half-forgotten emotions were awakened in the 
sister’s mind by this visit. It was so very long since 
any other visitor had crossed their threshold ; it was so 
very long since any voice of sympathy had made sad 
music in her ears ; that the stranger’s figure remained 
present to her, hours afterwards, when die sat at the 
window, plying her needle; and his words seemed newly 


70 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


spoken, again and again. He had touched the spring 
that opened her whole life ; and if she lost him for a 
short space, it was only among the many shapes of 
the one great recollection of which that life was 
made. 

Musing and working by turns ; now constraining her- 
self to be steady at her needle for a long time together, 
and now letting her work fall, unregarded, on her lap, 
and straying wheresoever her busier thoughts led, Har- 
riet Carker found the hours glide by her, and the day 
steal on. The morning, which had been bright and 
clear, gradually became overcast ; a sharp wind set in ; 
the rain fell heavily ; and a dark mist drooping over the 
distant town, hid it from the view. 

She often looked with compassion, at such a time, upon 
the stragglers who came wandering into London, by the 
great highway hard-by, and who, footsore and weary, 
and gazing fearfully at the huge town before them, as if 
foreboding that their misery there would be but as a 
drop of water in the sea, or as a grain of sea-sand on 
the shore, went shrinking on, cowering before the angry 
weather, and looking as if the very elements rejected 
them. Day after day, such travellers crept past, but 
always, as she thought, in one direction — always tow- 
ards the town. Swallowed up in one phase or other of 
its immensity, towards which they seemed impelled by a 
desperate fascination, they never returned. Food for 
the hospitals, the church-yards, the prisons, the river, 
fever, madness, vice, and death, — they passed on to the 
monster, roaring in the distance, and were lost. 

The chill wind was howling, and the rain was falling, 
and the day was darkening moodily, when Harriet, rais- 
ing her eyes from the work on which she bad long since 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


71 


been engaged with unremitting constancy, saw one of 
these travellers approaching. 

A woman. A solitary woman of some thirty years of 
age ; tall ; well-formed ; handsome ; miserably dressed ; 
the soil of many country roads in varied weather — dust, 
chalk, clay, gravel — clotted on her gray cloak by the 
streaming wet ; no bonnet on her head, nothing to de- 
fend her rich black hair from the rain, but a torn hand- 
kerchief ; with the fluttering ends of which, and with 
her hair, the wind blinded her so that she often stopped 
to push them back, and look upon the way she was 
going. 

She was in the act of doing so, when Harriet observed 
her. As her hands, parting on her sun-burnt forehead, 
swept across her face, and threw aside the hindrances 
that encroached upon it, there was a reckless and re- 
gardless beauty in it ; a dauntless and depraved indif- 
ference to more than weather : a carelessness of what 
was cast upon her bare head from heaven or earth : that, 
coupled with her misery and loneliness, touched the 
heart of her fellow-woman. She thought of all that 
was perverted and debased within her, no less than 
without : of modest graces of the mind, hardened and 
steeled, like these attractions of the person ; of the 
many gifts of the Creator flung to the winds like the 
wild hair ; of all the beautiful ruin upon which the storm 
was beating and the night was coming. 

Thinking of this, she did not turn away with a delicate 
indignation — too many of her own compassionate and 
tender sex too often do — but pitied her. 

Her fallen sister came on, looking far before her, try- 
ing with her eager eyes to pierce the mist in which the 
*;ity was enshrouded, and glancing, now and then, from 


72 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


side to side, with the bewildered and uncertain aspect of 
a stranger. Though her tread was bold and courageous, 
she was fatigued, and after a moment of irresolution, sat 
down upon a heap of stones ; seeking no shelter from 
the rain, but letting it rain on her as it would. 

She was now opposite the house ; raising her head 
after resting it for a moment on both hands, her eyes 
met those of Harriet. 

In a moment, Harriet was at the door ; and the other, 
rising from her seat at her beck, came slowly, and with 
no conciliatory look, towards her. 

“ Why do you rest in the rain ? ” said Harriet, gently. 

“ Because I have no other resting-place,” was the 
reply. 

“ But there are many places of shelter near here. 
This,” referring to the little porch, “ is better than where 
you were. You are very welcome to rest here.” 

The wanderer looked at her, in doubt and surprise, 
but without any expression of thankfulness; and sitting 
down, and taking off one of her worn shoes to beat out 
the fragments of stone and dust that were inside, showed 
that her foot was cut and bleeding. 

Harriet uttering an expression of pity, the traveller 
looked up with a contemptuous and incredulous smile. 

“ Why what’s a torn foot to such as me ? ” she said. 
“ And what’s a torn foot in such as me, to such as you ?” 

u Come in and wash it,” answered Harriet, mildly, 
and let me give you something to bind it up.” 

The woman caught her arm, and drawing it before 
her own eyes, hid them against it, and wept. Not like a 
woman, but like a stern man surprised into that weak- 
ness ; with a violent heaving of her breast, and struggle 
for recovery, that showed how unusual the emotion was 
with her. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


73 


She submitted to be led into the house, and, evidently 
more in gratitude than in any care for herself, washed 
and bound the injured place. Harriet then put before 
her fragments of her own frugal dinner, and when she 
had eaten of them, though sparingly, besought her, be- 
fore resuming her road (which she showed her anxiety 
to do), to dry her clothes before the fire. Again, more 
in gratitude than with any evidence of concern in her 
own behalf, she sat down in front of it, and unbinding 
the handkerchief about her head, and letting her thick 
wet hair fall down below her waist, sat drying it with 
the palms of her hands, and looking at the blaze. 

“ I dare say you are thinking,” she said, lifting her 
head suddenly, “ that I used to be handsome, once. I 
believe I was — I know I was. Look here ! ” 

She held up her hair roughly with both hands ; seiz- 
ing it as if she would have torn it out ; then, threw it 
down again, and flung it back as though it were a heap 
of serpents. 

“ Are you a stranger in this place ? ” asked Harriet. 

“ A stranger ! ” she returned, stopping between each 
short reply, and looking at the fire, “ Yes. Ten or a 
dozen years a stranger. I have had no almanac where 
I have been. Ten or a dozen years. I don’t know this 
part. It’s much altered since I went away.” 

“ Have you been far ? ” 

“Very far. Months upon months over the sea and 
far away even then. I have been where convicts go,” 
she added, looking full upon her entertainer. “ I have 
been one myself.” 

“ Heaven help you and forgive you ! ” was the gentle 
answer. 

“ Ah ! Heaven help me and forgive me ! ” she re- 


74 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


turned, nodding her head at the fire. “If man would 
help some of us a little more, God would forgive us all 
the sooner perhaps.” 

But she was softened by the earnest manner, and the 
cordial face so full of mildness and so free from judg- 
ment, of her, and said, less hardily: 

“We may be about the same age, you and me. If I 
am older, it is not above a year or two. Oh think of 
that ! ” 

She opened her arms, as though the exhibition of her 
outward form would show the moral wretch she was ; 
and letting them drop at her sides, hung down her head. 

“ There is nothing we may not hope to repair ; it is 
never too late to amend,” said Harriet. “ You are peni- 
tent ” — 

“ No,” she answered. “ I am not ! I can’t be. I am 
no such thing. Why should I be penitent, and all the 
world go free. They talk to me of my penitence. 
Who’s penitent for the wrongs that have been done 
to me ! ” 

She rose up, bound her handkerchief about her head, 
and turned to move away. 

“ Where are you going ? ” said Harriet. 

“Yonder,” she answered, pointing with her hand. 
“ To London.” 

“ Have you any home to go to ? ” 

“ I think I have a mother. She’s as much a mother, 
as her dwelling is a home,” she answered with a bitter 
laugh. 

“ Take this,” cried Harriet, putting money in her 
hand. “ Try to do well. It is very little, but for one 
day it may keep you from harm.” 

“ Are you married ? ” said the other, faintly, as she 
took it. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


75 


“No. I live here with my brother. We have not 
much to spare, or I would give you more.” 

“ Will you let me kiss you ? ” 

Seeing no scorn or repugnance in her face, the object 
of her charity bent over her as she asked the question, 
and pressed her lips against her cheek. Once more she 
caught her arm, and covered her eyes with it ; and then 
was gone. 

Gone into the deepening night, and howling wind, and 
pelting rain ; urging her way on towards the mist-en- 
shrouded city where the blurred lights gleamed ; and 
with her black hair and disordered head-gear, fluttering 
round her reckless face. 


76 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXXI Y. 

ANOTHER MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

In an ugly and dark room, an old woman, ugly and 
dark too, sat listening to the wind and rain, and crouch- 
ing over a meagre lire. More constant to the last-named 
occupation than the first, she never changed her attitude, 
unless, when any stray drops of rain fell hissing on the 
smouldering embers, to raise her head with an awakened 
attention to the whistling and pattering outside, and 
gradually to let it fall again lower and lower and lower 
as she sunk into a brooding state of thought, in which 
the noises of the night were as indistinctly regarded as 
is the monotonous rolling of a sea by one who sits in 
contemplation on its shore. 

There was no light in the room save that which the 
fire afforded. Glaring sullenly from time to time like 
the eye of a fierce beast half asleep, it revealed no ob- 
jects that needed to be jealous of a better display. A 
heap of rags, a heap of bones, a wretched bed, two or 
three mutilated chairs or stools, the black walls and 
blacker ceiling, were all its winking brightness shone 
upon. As the old woman, with a gigantic and distorted 
image of herself, thrown half upon the wall behind her 
half upon the roof above, sat bending over the few loose 
bricks within which it was pent, on the damp hearth of 
the chimney — - for there was po stove she looked as 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


77 


if she were watching at some witch’s altar for a favor- 
able token ; and but that the movement of her chattering 
jaws and trembling chin was too frequent and too fast 
for the slow flickering of the fire, it would have seemed 
an illusion wrought by the light, as it came and went, 
upon a face as motionless as the form to which it be- 
longed. 

If Florence could have stood within the room and 
looked upon the original of the shadow thrown upon the 
wall and roof, as it cowered thus over the fire, a glance 
might have sufficed to recall the figure of Good Mrs. 
Brown ; notwithstanding that her childish recollection of 
that terrible old woman was as grotesque and exagger* 
ated a presentment of the truth, perhaps, as the shadow 
on the wall. But Florence was not there to look on ; 
and Good Mrs. Brown remained unrecognized, and sat 
staring at her fire, unobserved. 

Attracted by a louder sputtering than usual, as the 
rain came hissing down the chimney in a little stream, 
the old woman raised her head, impatiently, to listen 
afresh. And this time she did not drop it again ; for 
there was a hand upon the door, and a footstep in the 
room. 

“ Who’s that ? ” she said, looking over her shoul- 
der. 

“ One who brings you news,” was the answer, in a 
woman’s voice. 

“ News ? Where from ? ” 

“ From abroad.” 

“ From beyond seas ? ” cried the old woman, starting 

tip. 

“ Ay, from beyond seas.” 

The old woman raked the fire together, hurriedly, and 


78 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


going close to her visitor who had entered, and shut the 
door, and who now stood in the middle of the room, put 
her hand upon the drenched cloak, and turned the un- 
resisting figure, so as to have it in the full light of the 
fire. She did not find what she had expected, whatever 
that might be ; for she let the cloak go again, and ut- 
tered a querulous cry of disappointment and misery. 

“What is the matter ?” asked her visitor. 

“ Oho ! Oho ! ” cried the old woman, turning her face 
upward, with a terrible howl. 

“ What is the matter ? ” asked the visitor again. 

“ It’s not my gal ! ” cried the old woman, tossing up 
her arms, and clasping her . hands above her head. 
“ Where’s my Alice ? Where’s my handsome daughter ? 
They’ve been the death of her ! ” 

“ They’ve not been the death of her yet, if your name’s 
Marwood,” said the visitor. 

“ Have you seen my gal then ? ” cried the old woman. 
“ Has she wrote to me ? ” 

“ She said you couldn’t read,” returned the other. 

“ No more I can ! ” exclaimed the old woman, wring- 
ing her hands. 

“ Have you no light here ? ” said the other, looking 
round the room. 

The old woman, mumbling and shaking her head, 
and muttering to herself about her handsome daughter, 
brought a candle from a cupboard in the corner, and 
thrusting it into the fire with a trembling hand, lighted 
it with some difficulty and set it on the table. Its dirty 
wick burnt dimly at first, being choked in its own grease ; 
and when the bleared eyes and failing sight of the old 
woman could distinguish anything by its light, her visitor 
was sitting with her arms folded, her eyes turned down- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


79 


wards, and a handkerchief she had worn upon her head 
lying on the table by her side. 

“ She sent to me by word of mouth then, my gal, 
Alice ? ” mumbled the old woman, after waiting for 
some moments. “ What did she say ? ” 

“ Look,” returned the visitor. 

The old woman repeated the word in a scared uncer- 
tain way ; and, shading her eyes, looked at the speaker, 
round the room, and at the speaker once again. 

“ Alice said look again, mother ; ” and the speaker 
fixed her eyes upon her. 

Again the old woman looked round the room, and at 
her visitor, and round the room once more. Hastily 
seizing the candle, and rising from her seat, she held it 
to the visitor’s face, uttered a loud cry, set down the 
light, and fell upon her neck ! 

u It’s my gal ! It’s my Alice ! It’s my handsome 
daughter, living and come back ! ” screamed the old 
woman, rocking herself to and fro upon the breast that 
coldly suffered her embrace. “ It’s my gal ! It’s my 
Alice! It’s my handsome daughter, living and come 
back ! ” she screamed again, dropping on the floor be- 
fore her, clasping her knees, laying her head against 
them, and still rocking herself to and fro with every 
frantic demonstration of which her vitality was capa- 
ble. 

“ Yes, mother,” returned Alice, stooping forward for a 
moment, and kissing her, but’ endeavoring, even in the 
act, to disengage herself from her embrace. “ I am 
here, at last. Let go, mother ; let go. Get up, and sit 
'e your chair. What good does this do ? ” 

“ She’s come back harder than she went ! ” cried the 
mother, looking up in her face, and still holding to her 


80 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


knees. “ She don’t care for me ! after all these years, 
and all the wretched life I’ve led ! ” 

“ Why, mother ! ” said Alice, shaking her ragged 
skirts to detach the old woman from them : “ there are 
two sides to that. There have been years for me as 
well as you, and there has been wretchedness for me as 
well as you. Get up, get up ! ” 

Her mother rose, and cried, and wrung her hands, 
and stood at a little distance gazing on her. Then she 
took the candle again, and going round her, surveyed her 
from head to foot, making a low moaning all the time. 
Then she put the candle down, resumed her chair, and 
beating her hands together to a kind of weary tune, 
and rolling herself from side to side, continued moaning 
and wailing to herself. 

Alice got up, took off her wet cloak, and laid it aside. 
That done, she sat down as before, and with her arms 
folded, and her eyes gazing at the fire, remained silently 
listening with a contemptuous face to her old mother’s 
inarticulate complainings. 

“ Did you expect to see me return as youthful as I 
went away, mother ? ” she said at length, turning her 
eyes upon the old woman. “ Did you think a foreign 
life, like mine, was good for good looks? One would 
believe so to hear you ! ” 

“ It a’n’t that ! ” cried the mother. “ She knows it ! ” 

“ What is it then ? ” returned the daughter. “ It had 
best be something that don’t last, mother, or my way out 
is easier than my way in.” 

“ Hear that ! ” exclaimed the mother. “ After all 
these years she threatens to desert me in the moment of 
her coming back again ! ” 

“ I tell you, mother, for the second time, there have 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


81 


been years for me as well as you,” said Alice. u Come 
back harder ? Of course I have come back harder. 
What else did you expect?” • 

“ Harder to me ! To her own dear mother ! ” cried 
the old woman. 

“ I don’t know who began to harden me, if my own 
dear mother didn’t,” she returned, sitting with her folded 
arms, and knitted brows, and compressed lips as if she 
were bent on excluding, by force, every softer feeling 
from her breast. “ Listen, mother, to a word or two. 
If we understand each other now, we shall not fall out 
any more, perhaps. I went away a girl, and have come 
back a woman. I went away undutiful enough, and 
have come back no better, you may swear. But have 
you been very dutiful to me ? ” 

“ I ! ” cried the old woman. “ To my own gal ! A 
mother dutiful to her own child ! ” 

“It sounds unnatural, don’t it?” returned the daughter, 
looking coldly on her with her stern, regardless, hardy, 
beautiful face ; “ but I have thought of it sometimes, in 
the course of my lone years, till I have got used to it. I 
have heard some talk about duty first and last ; but it 
has always been of my duty to other people. I have 
wondered now and then — to pass away the time — 
whether no one ever owed any duty to me.” 

Her mother sat mowing, and mumbling, and shaking 
her head, but whether angrily, or remorsefully, or in de- 
nial, or only in her physical infirmity, did not appear. 

“ There was a child called Alice Marwood,” said the 
daughter, with a laugh, and looking down at herself in 
terrible derision of herself, “ born, among poverty and 
neglect, and nursed in it. Nobody taught her, nobody 
stepped forward to help her, nobody cared for her.” 

VOL. III. 6 


82 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Nobody ! ” echoed the mother, pointing to herself, 
and striking her breast. 

“ The oftly care she knew,” returned the daughter 
“ was to be beaten, and stinted, and abused sometimes 
and she might have done better without that. She lived 
in homes like this, and in the streets, with a crowd of 
little wretches like herself ; and yet she brought good 
looks out of this childhood. So much the worse for her. 
She had better have been hunted and worried to death 
for ugliness.” 

“ Go on ! go on ! ” exclaimed the mother. 

“I am going on,” returned the daughter. “ There 
was a girl called Alice Marwood. She was handsome. 
She was taught too late, and taught all wrong. She was 
too well cared for, too well trained, too well helped on, 
too much looked after. You were very fond of her — 
you were better off then. What came to that girl comes 
to thousands every year. It was only ruin, and she was 
born to it.” 

“ After all these years ! ” whined the old woman. 
“ My gal begins with this.” 

“ She’ll soon have ended,” said the daughter. “ There 
was a criminal called Alice Marwood — a girl still, but 
d-eserted and an outcast. And she was tried, and she 
was sentenced. And lord, how the gentlemen in the 
court talked about it ! and how grave the judge was, on 
her duty, and on her having perverted the gifts of nature 
— as if he didn’t know better than anybody there, that 
they had been made curses to her ! — and how he 
preached about the strong arm of the Law — so very 
>trong to save her, when she was an innocent and help- 
less little wretch ! and how solemn and religious it all 
was ! I have thought of that, many times since, to be 
sure ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


83 


She folded her arms tightly on her breast, and 
laughed in a tone that made the howl of the old woman 
musical. 

“ So Alice Marwood was transported, mother,” she 
pursued, “ and was sent to learn her duty, where there 
was twenty times less duty, and more wickedness, and 
wrong, and infamy, than here. And Alice Marwood is 
come back a woman. Such a woman as she ought to 
be, after all this. In good time, there will be more 
solemnity, and more fine talk, and more strong arm, 
most likely, and there will be an end of her; but the 
gentlemen needn’t be afraid of being thrown out of work. 
There’s crowds of little wretches, boy and girl, growing 
up in any of the streets they live in, that’ll keep them to 
it till they’ve made their fortunes.” 

The old woman leaned her elbows on the table, and 
resting her face upon her two hands, made a show of 
being in great distress — or really was, perhaps. 

“ There ! I have done, mother,” said the daughter, 
with a motion of her head, as if in dismissal of the sub- 
ject. “ I have said enough. Don’t let you and I talk 
of being dutiful, whatever we do. Your childhood was 
like mine, I suppose. So much the worse for both of 
us. I don’t want to blame you, or to defend myself ; 
why should I ? That’s all over, long ago. But I am a 
woman — not a girl, now — and you and I needn’t make 
a show of our history, like the gentlemen in the court. 
We know all about it, well enough.” 

Lost and degraded as she was, there was a beauty in 
her, both of face and form, which, even in its worst ex- 
pression, could not but be recognized as such by any one 
regarding her with the least attention. As she subsided 
into silence, and her face w r hich had been harshly agi- 


84 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


tated, quieted down ; while her dark eyes, fixed upon 
the fire, exchanged the reckless light that had animated 
them, for one that was softened by something like sor- 
row ; there shone through all her wayworn misery and 
fatigue, a ray of the departed radiance of the fallen an - 
gel. 

Her mother, after watching her for some time without 
speaking, ventured to steal her withered hand a little 
nearer to her across the table ; and finding that she per- 
mitted this, to touch her face, and smooth her hair. With 
the feeling, as it seemed, that the old woman was at least 
sincere in this show of interest, Alice made no movement 
to check her, so, advancing by degrees, she bound up her 
daughter’s hair afresh, took off her wet shoes, if they 
deserved the name, spread something dry upon her shoul- 
ders, and hovered humbly about her, muttering to her- 
self, as she recognized her old features and expression 
more and more. 

“ You are very poor, mother, I see,” said Alice, look- 
ing round, when she had sat thus for some time. 

“ Bitter poor, my deary,” replied the old woman. 

She admired her daughter, and was afraid of her. 
Perhaps her admiration, such as it was, had originated 
long ago, when she first found anything that was beau- 
tiful appearing in the midst of the squalid fight of her 
existence. Perhaps her fear was referable, in some sort, 
to the retrospect she had so lately heard. Be this as it 
might, she stood, submissively and deferentially, before 
her child, and inclined her head, as if in a pitiful en- 
treaty to be spared any further reproach. 

“ How have you lived ? ” 

u By begging, my deary.” 

“ And pilfering, mother ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


85 


“ Sometimes, Ally — in a very small way. I am old 
and timid. I have taken trifles from children now and 
then, my deary, but not often. I have tramped about 
the country, pet, and I know what I know. I have 
watched.” 

“ Watched?” returned the daughter, looking at her. 

“ I have hung about a family, my deary,” said the 
mother, even more humbly and submissively than be- 
fore. 

“ What family ? ” 

“ Hush, darling. Don’t be angry with me, I did it for 
the love of you. In memory of my poor gal beyond 
seas.” She put out her hand deprecatingly, and draw- 
ing it back again, laid it on her lips.' 

“ Years ago, my deary,” she pursued, glancing timidly 
at the attentive and stern face opposed to her. “ I came 
across his little child, by chance.” 

“Whose child?” 

“ Not his, Alice deary ; don’t look at me like that ; 
not his. How could it be his ? You know he has 
none.” 

“ Whose then ? ” returned the daughter. “ You said 
his.” 

“ Hush, Ally ; you frighten me, deary. Mr. Dom- 
bey’s — only Mr. Dombey’s. Since then, darling, I 
have seen them often. I have seen him .” 

In uttering this last word, the old woman shrunk and 
recoiled, as if with a sudden fear that her daughter 
A’ould strike her. But though the daughter’s face was 
fixed upon her, and expressed the most vehement pas- 
sion, she remained still : except that she clinched her 
Arms tighter and tighter within each other, on her bosom, 
as if to restrain them by that means from doing an in 


8G 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


jury to herself, or some one else, in the blind fury of 
the wrath that suddenly possessed her. 

“ Little he thought who I was ! ” said the old woman, 
shaking her clinched hand. 

“ And little he cared ! ” muttered her daughter, be- 
tween her teeth. 

“ But there we were,” said the old woman, 44 face to 
face. I spoke to him, and he spoke to me. I sat and 
watched him as he went away down a long grove of 
trees ; and at every step he took, I cursed him soul 
and body.” 

“ He will thrive in spite of that,” returned the daugh- 
ter disdainfully. 

“ Ay, he is thriving,” said the mother. 

She held her peace ; for the face and form before her 
were unshaped by rage. It seemed as if the bosom 
would burst with the emotions that strove within it. 
The effort that constrained and held it pent up, was 
no less formidable than the rage itself : no less bespeak- 
ing the violent and dangerous character of the woman 
who made it. But it succeeded, and she asked, after 
a silence : 

“ Is he married ? ” 

“ No, deary,” said the mother. 

“ Going to be ? ” 

“ Not that I know of, deary. But his master ind 
friend is married. Oh, we may give him joy ! We 
may give ’em all joy ! ” cried the old woman, hugging 
herself with her lean arms in her exultation. “ Noth- 
: ng but joy to us will come of that marriage. Mind 
me ! ” 

The daughter looked at her for an explanation. 

“ But you are wet and tired : hungry and thirsty,” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


87 


said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard : “ and 
there’s little here, and little ” — diving down into her 
pocket, and jingling a few halfpence on the table — 
“ little here. Have you any money, Alice, deary ? ” 

The covetous, sharp, eager face with which she asked 
the question and looked on, as her daughter took out of 
her bosom the little gift she had so lately received, told 
almost as much of the history of this parent and child 
as the child herself had told in words. 

“ Is that all ? ” said the mother. 

“ I have no more. I should not have this, but for 
charity.” 

“But for charity, eh, deary?” said the old woman, 
bending greedily over the table to look at the money, 
which she appeared distrustful of her daughter’s still re- 
taining in her hand, and gazing on. “ Humph ! six and 
six is twelve and six eighteen — so — we must make 
the most of it. I’ll go buy something to eat and drink.” 

With greater alacrity than might have been expected 
in one of her appearance — for age and misery seemed 
to have made her as decrepit as ugly — she began to 
occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on 
her head, and folding a torn shawl about herself : still 
eying the money in her daughter’s hand, with the same 
sharp desire. 

“ What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother ? ” 
asked the daughter. “ You have not told me that.” 

“ The joy,” she replied, attiring herself, with fumbling 
lingers, “ of no love at all, and much pride and hate, my 
deary. The joy of confusion and strife among ’em, 
proud as they are, and of danger — danger, Alice ! ” 

“ What danger ? ” 

“ 1 have seen what I have seen. I know what I 


88 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


know ! ” chuckled the mother. “ Let some look to it, 
Let some be upon their guard. My gal may keep good 
company yet ! ” 

Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with 
which her daughter regarded her, her hand involuntarily 
closed upon the money, the old woman made more speed 
to secure it, and hurriedly added, “ but I’ll go buy some- 
thing ; I’ll go buy something.” 

As she stood with her hand stretched out before her 
daughter, her daughter, glancing again at the money, put 
it to her lips before parting with it. 

“ What, Ally ! Do you kiss it ? ” chuckled the old 
woman. “ That’s like me — I often do. Oh, it’s so 
good to us ! ” squeezing her own tarnished halfpence 
up to her bag of a throat, “ so good to us in everything 
but not coming in heaps ! ” 

“ I kiss it, mother,” said the daughter, “ or I did then 
— I don’t know that I ever did before — for the giver’s 
sake.” 

“ The giver, eh, deary ? ” retorted the old woman, 
whose dimmed eyes glistened as she took it. “ Ay ! 
I’ll kiss it for the giver’s sake, too, when the giver can 
make it go farther. But I’ll go spend it, deary. I’ll be 
back directly.” 

“ You seem to say you know a great deal, mother,” 
said the daughter, following her to the door with her 
eyes. “You have grown very wise since we parted.” 

u Know !” croaked the old woman, coming back a step 
or two, “ I know more than you think. I know more 
than he thinks, deary, as I’ll tell you by-and-by. I know 
all about him.” 

The daughter smiled incredulously. 

“ I know of his brother, Alice,” said the old woman, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


89 


stretching out her neck with a leer of malice absolutely 
frightful, “ who might have been where you have been 
— for stealing money — and who lives with his sister, 
over yonder, by the north road out of London.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ By the north road out of London, deary. You sha 
see the house, if you like. It a’n’t much to boast of, 
genteel as his own is. No, no, no,” cried the old woman 
shaking her head and laughing ; for her daughter had 
started up, “ not now ; it’s too far off ; it’s by the mile- 
stone, where the stones are heaped ; — to-morrow, deary, 
if it’s fine, and you are in the humor. But I’ll go 
spend ” — 

“ Stop ! ” and the daughter flung herself upon her, 
with her former passion raging like a fire. “ The sister 
is a fair-faced devil, with brown hair ? ” 

The old woman, amazed and terrified, nodded her 
head. 

“ I see the shadow of him in her face ! It’s a red 
house standing by itself. Before the door there is a 
email green porch.” 

Again the old woman nodded. 

“ In which I sat to-day ! Give me back the money.” 

“ Alice ! Deary ! ” 

“ Give me back the money, or you’ll be hurt.” 

She forced it from the old woman’s hand as she spoke, 
and utterly indifferent to her complainings and entreaties, 
threw on the garments she had taken off, and hurried 
out, with headlong speed. 

. The mother followed, limping after her as she could, 
and expostulating with no more effect upon her than 
upon the wind and rain and darkness that encompassed 
them. Obdurate and fierce in her own purpose, and in- 


90 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


different to all besides, the daughter defied the weathei 
and the distance, as if she had kncwn no travel or 
fatigue, and made for the house where she had been 
relieved. After some quarter of an hour’s walking, the 
old woman, spent and out of breath, ventured to hold by 
her skirts ; but she ventured no more, and they travelled 
on in silence through the wet and gloom. If the mother 
now and then uttered a word of complaint, she stifled 
it lest her daughter should break away from her and 
leave her behind ; and the daughter was dumb. 

It was within an hour or so of midnight, w'hen they 
left the regular streets behind them, and entered on the 
deeper gloom of that neutral ground where the house 
was situated. The town lay in the distance, lurid and 
lowering ; the bleak wind howled over the open space ; 
all around was black, wild, desolate. 

“ This is a fit place for me ! ” said the daughter, stop- 
ping to look back. “ I thought so, when I was here 
before, to-day.” 

“Alice, my deary,” cried the mother, pulling her 
gently by the skirt. “ Alice ! ” 

“ What now, mother ? ” 

“Don’t give the money back, my darling $ please 
don’t. We can’t afford it. We want supper, deary. 
Money is money, whoever gives it. Say what you will, 
but keep the money.” 

“ See there ! ” was all the daughter’s answer. “ That 
is the house I mean. Is that it ? ” 

The old woman nodded in the affirmative ; and a few 
more paces brought them to the threshold. There was 
the light of fire and candle in the room where Alice had 
sat to dry her clothes ; and on her knocking at the door, 
John Carker appeared from that room. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


91 


He was surprised to see such visitors at such an hour, 
and asked Alice what she wanted. 

“ I want your sister,” she said. “ The woman who 
gave me money to-day.” 

At the sound of her raised voice Harriet came out 

“ Oh ! ” said Alice. “ You are here ! Do you re* 
member me?” 

“ Yes ? ” she answered, w-ondering. 

The face that had humbled itself before her, looked on 
her now with such invincible hatred and defiance ; and the 
hand that had gently touched her arm, was clinched with 
such a show of evil purpose, as if it would gladly strangle 
her ; that she drew close to her brother for protection. 

“ That I could speak with you, and not know you ! 
That I could come near you, and not feel what blood 
was running in your veins, by the tingling of ray own ! ” 
said Alice wdth a menacing gesture. 

“ What do you mean ? What have I done ? ” 

“ Done ! ” returned the other. “ You have sat me by 
your fire ; you have given me food and money ; you 
have bestowed your compassion on me ! You ! whose 
name I spit upon ! ” 

The old woman, with a malevolence that made her 
ugliness quite awful, shook her withered hand at the 
brother and sister in confirmation of her daughter, but 
plucked her by the skirts again, nevertheless, imploring 
her to keep the money. 

“ If I dropped a tear upon your hand, may it wither it 
up ! If I spoke a gentle w r ord in your hearing, may it 
deafen you ! If I touched you with my lips, may the 
touch be poison to you ! A curse upon this roof that 
gave me shelter ! Sorrow and shame upon your head ! 
Ruin upon all belonging to you ! ” 


92 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


As she said the words, she threw the money down 
upon the ground, and spurned it with her foot. 

“ I tread it in the dust : I wouldn’t take it if it paved 
my way to Heaven ! I would the bleeding foot that 
brought me here to-day, had rotted off, before it led me 
to your house ! ” 

Harriet, pale and trembling, restrained her brother, 
and suffered her to go on uninterrupted. 

“ It was well that I should be pitied and forgiven by 
you, or any one of your name, in the first hour of my 
return ! It was well that you should act the kind good 
lady to me ! I’ll thank you when I die ; I’ll pray for 
you, and all your race, you may be sure ! ” 

With a fierce action of her hand, as if she sprinkled 
hatred on the ground, and with it devoted those who 
were standing there to destruction, she looked up once 
at the black sky, and strode out into the wild night. 

The mother, who had plucked at her skirts again and 
again in vain, and had eyed the money lying on the 
threshold with an absorbing greed that seemed to con- 
centrate her faculties upon it, would have prowled about, 
until the house was dark, and then groped in the mire 
on the chance of repossessing herself of it. But the 
daughter drew her away, and they set forth, straight, on 
their return to their dwelling ; the old woman whimper- 
ing and bemoaning their loss upon the road, and fret- 
fully bewailing, as openly as she dared, the undutiful 
conduct of her handsome girl in depriving her of a sup- 
per, on the very first night of their reunion. 

Supperless to bed she went, saving for a few coarse 
fragments ; and those she sat mumbling and munching 
over a scrap of fire, long after her undutiful daughter 
lay asleep. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


93 


Were this miserable mother, and this miserable 
daughter, only the reduction to their lowest grade, of 
certain social vices sometimes prevailing higher up ? In 
this round world of many circles within circles, do we 
make a weary journey from the high grade to the low, 
to find at last that they lie close together, that the two 
extremes touch, and that our journey’s end is but our 
starting-place ? Allowing for great difference of stuff 
and texture, was the pattern of this woof repeated 
among gentle blood at all ? 

Say, Edith Dombey ! And Cleopatra, best of mothers, 
let us have your testimony ! 


94 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE HAPPY PAIR. 

The dark blot on the street is gone. Mr. Dombey’s 
mansion, if it be a gap among the other houses any 
longer, is only so because it is not to be vied with in its 
brightness, and haughtily cast them off. The saying is, 
that home is home, be it never so homely. If it hold 
good in the opposite contingency, and home is home be 
it never so stately, what an altar to the Household Gods 
is raised up here ! 

Lights are sparkling in the windows this evening, and 
the ruddy glow of fires is warm and bright upon the 
hangings and soft carpets, and the dinner waits to be 
served, and the dinner-table is handsomely set forth, 
though only for four persons, and the sideboard is cum- 
brous with plate. It is the first time that the house has 
been arranged for occupation since its late changes, and 
the happy pair are looked for every minute. 

Only second to the wedding-morning, in-, the interest 
and expectation it engenders among the household, is 
this evening of the coming home. Mrs. Perch is in the 
kitchen taking tea; and has made the tour of the estab- 
lishment, and priced the silks and damasks by the yard, 
and exhausted every interjection in the dictionary and 
out of it expressive of admiration and wonder. The 
upholsterer’s foreman, who has left his hat, with a 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


95 


pocket-handkerchief in it, both smelling strongly of var- 
nish, under a chair in the hall, lurks about the house, 
gazing upward at the cornices, and downward at the 
carpets, and occasionally, in a silent transport of enjoy- 
ment, taking a rule out of his pocket, and skirm'ishingly 
measuring expensive objects, with unutterable feelings 
Cook is in high spirits, and says give her a place where 
there’s plenty of company (as she’ll bet you sixpence 
there will be now), for she is of a lively disposition, and 
she always was from a child, and she don’t mind who 
knows it ; which sentiment elicits from the breast of Mrs, 
Perch a responsive murmur of support and approbation* 
All the house-maid hopes is, happiness for ’em — but mar- 
riage is a lottery, and the more she thinks about it, the 
more she feels the independence and the safety of a 
single life. Mr. Towlinson is saturnine and grim, and 
says that’s his opinion too, and give him war besides, 
and down with the French — for this young man has a 
general impression that every foreigner is a Frenchman, 
and must be by the laws of nature. 

At each new sound of wheels, they all stop, whatever 
they are saying, and listen ; and more than once there 
is a general starting up and a cry of “ Here they are ! ” 
But here they are not yet ; and cook begins to mourn 
over the dinner, which has been put back twice, and the 
upholsterer’s foreman still goes lurking about the rooms, 
undisturbed in his blissful revery ! 

Florence is ready to receive her father and her new 
mama. Whether the emotions that are throbbing in her 
breast originate in pleasure or in pain, she hardly knows. 
But the fluttering heart sends added color to her cheeks, 
and brightness to her eyes ; and they say down-stairs, 
drawing their heads together — for they always speak 


96 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


softly when they speak of her — how beautiful Miss 
Florence looks to-night, and what a sweet young lady 
she has grown, poor dear ! A pause succeeds ; and then 
cook, feeling as president, that her sentiments are waited 
for, wonders whether — and there stops. The house- 
maid wonders too, and so does Mrs. Perch, who has the 
happy social faculty of always wondering when other 
people wonder, without being at all particular what she 
wonders at. Mr. Towlinson, who now descries an op- 
portunity of bringing down the spirits of the ladies to 
his own level, says wait and see : he wishes some people 
were well out of this. Cook leads a sigh then, and a 
murmur of “ Ah, it’s a strange world, — it is indeed!” 
and when it has gone round the table, adds persua- 
sively, “ but Miss Florence can’t well be the w r orse for 
any change, Tom.” Mr. Towlinson’s rejoinder, preg- 
nant with frightful meaning, is, “ Oh, can’t she though!” 
and sensible that a mere man can scarcely be more 
prophetic, or improve upon that, he holds his peace. 

Mrs. Skewton, prepared to greet her darling daughter 
and dear son-in-law with open arms, is appropriately 
attired for that purpose in a very youthful costume, with 
short sleeves. At present, however, her ripe charms 
are blooming in the shade of her own apartments, whence 
she has not emerged since she took possession of them 
a few hours ago, and where she is fast growing fret- 
ful, on account of the postponement of dinner. The maid 
who ought to be a skeleton, but is in truth a buxom 
damsel, is, on the other hand, in a most amiable state ; 
considering her quarterly stipend much safer than here- 
tofore, and foreseeing a great improvement in her board 
and lodging. 

Where are the happy pair, for whom this brave home 


DOMBEY AND SON 


97 


is waiting ? Do steam, tide, wind, and horses, all abate 
their speed, to linger on such happiness ? Does the 
swarm of loves and graces hovering about them retard 
their progress by its numbers ? Are there so many 
flowers in their happy path, that they can scarcely 
move along, without entanglement in thornless roses and 
sweetest brier? 

They are here at last ! The noise of wheels is heard, 
grows louder, and a carriage drives up to the door ! 
A thundering knock from the obnoxious foreigner an- 
ticipates the rush of Mr. Towlinson and party to open 
it ; and Mr. Dombey and his bride alight, and walk in 
arm and arm. 

“ My sweetest Edith ! ” cries an agitated voice upon 
the stairs. “ My dearest Dombey ! ” and the short sleeves 
wreath themselves about the happy couple in turn, and 
embrace them. 

Florence had come down to the hall too, but did 
not advance : reserving her timid welcome until these 
nearer and dearer transports should subside. But the 
eyes of Edith sought her out, upon the threshold ; and 
dismissing her sensitive parent with a slight kiss on 
the cheek, she hurried on to Florence and embraced 
her. 

“ How do you do, Florence ? ” said Mr. Dombey, put- 
ting out his hand. 

As Florence, trembling, raised it to her lips, she met 
his glance. The look was cold and distant enough, but 
it stirred her heart to think that she observed in it 
something more of interest than he had ever shown be- 
fore. It even expressed a kind of faint surprise, and 
not a disagreeable surprise, at sight of her. She dared 
not raise her eyes to his any more ; but she felt that 

VOL. III. 7 


98 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


he looked at her once again, and not lt^s favorably. 
Oh ! what a thrill of joy shot through her, awakened by 
even this intangible and baseless confirmation of her 
hope that she would learn to win him, through her new 
and beautiful mama ! 

“ You will not be long dressing, Mrs. Dombey, I pre« 
sume ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ I shall be ready immediately.” 

“ Let them send up dinner in a quarter of an hour.” 

With that Mr. Dombey stalked away to his own dress- 
ing-room, and Mrs. Dombey went up-stairs to hers. 
Mrs. Skewton and Florence repaired to the drawing- 
room, where that excellent mother considered it incum- 
bent on her to shed a few irrepressible tears, supposed 
to be forced from her by her daughter’s felicity ; and 
which she was still drying, very gingerly, with a laced 
corner of her pocket-handkerchief, when her son-in-law 
appeared. 

“ And how, my dearest Dombey, did you find that 
delightfullest of cities, Paris ? ” she asked, subduing her 
emotion. 

“It was cold,” returned Mr. Dombey. 

“ Gay as ever,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ of course.” 

“ Not particularly. I thought it dull,” said Mr. Dom- 
bey. 

“ Fie, my dearest Dombey ! ” archly ; “ dull ! ” 

“ It made that impression upon me, madam,” said Mr. 
Dombey, with grave politeness. “ I believe Mrs. Dom- 
bey found it dull too. She mentioned once or twice that 
she thought it so.” 

“ Why, you naughty girl ! ” cried Mrs. Skewton, rally- 
ing her dear child, who now entered, “ what dreadfully 
heretical things have you been saying about Paris?” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


99 


Edith raised her eyebrows with an air of weariness ; 
and passing the folding-doors, which were thrown open 
to display the suite of rooms in their new and hand- 
some garniture, and barely glancing at them as she 
passed, sat down by Florence. 

“ My dear Dombey,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ how charm 
ingly these people have carried out every idea that we 
hinted. They have made a perfect palace of the house, 
positively.” 

“ It is handsome,” said Mr. Dombey, looking round. 
“ I directed that no expense should be spared ; and all 
that money could do, has been done, I believe.” 

u And what can it not do, dear Dombey ? ” observed 
Cleopatra. 

“ It is powerful, madam,” said Mr. Dombey. 

He looked in his solemn way towards his wife, but 
not a word said she. 

“ I hope, Mrs. Dombey,” addressing her after a mo- 
ment’s silence, with especial distinctness ; “ that these 
alterations meet with your approval ? ” 

“ They are as handsome as they can be,” she returned, 
with haughty carelessness. “ They should be so, of 
course. And I suppose they are.” 

An expression of scorn was habitual to the proud face, 
and seemed inseparable from it ; but the contempt with 
which it received any appeal to admiration, respect, or 
consideration on the ground of his riches, no matter how 
slight or ordinary in itself, was a new and different ex- 
pression, unequalled in intensity by any other of which 
it was capable. Whether Mr. Dombey, wrapped in his 
awn greatness, was at all aware of this, or no, there 
had not been wanting opportunities already for his com- 
plete enlightenment ; and at that moment it might have 


100 


DOMB£Y A.ND SON. 


been effected by the one glance of the dark eye that 
lighted on him, after it had rapidly and scornfully sur- 
veyed the theme of his self-glorification. He might have 
read in that one glance that nothing that his wealth could 
do, though it were increased ten thousand fold, could 
win him for its own sake, one look of softened recog- 
nition from the defiant woman, linked to him, but arrayed 
with her whole soul against him. He might have read 
in that one glance that even for its sordid and mercenary 
influence upon herself, she spurned it, while she claimed 
its utmost power as her right, her bargain — as the base 
and worthless recompense for w'hich she had become his 
wife. He might have read in it that, ever baring her 
own head for the lightning of her own contempt and 
pride to strike, the most innocent allusion to the power 
of his riches degraded her anew, sunk her deeper in her 
own respect, and made the blight and waste within her 
more complete. 

But dinner was announced, and Mr. Dombey led down 
Cleopatra ; Edith and his daughter following. Sweep- 
ing past the gold and silver demonstration on the side- 
board as if it were heaped-up dirt, and deigning to 
bestow no look upon the elegancies around her, she took 
her place at his board for the first time, and sat, like a 
statue, at the feast. 

Mr. Dombey, being a good deal in the statue way him- 
self, was well enough pleased to see his handsome wife 
immovable and proud and cold. Her deportment being 
always elegant and graceful, this as a general behavior 
was agreeable and congenial to him. Presiding, there- 
fore, with his accustomed dignity, and not at all reflect- 
ing on his wife by any warmth or hilarity of his own, 
be performed his share of the honors of the table witb 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


101 


a cool satisfaction ; and the installation dinner, though 
not regarded down-stairs as a great success, or very 
promising beginning, passed off, above, in a sufficiently 
polite, genteel, and frosty manner. 

Soon after tea, Mrs. Skewton, who affected to be quite 
overcome and worn out by her emotions of happiness, 
arising in the contemplation of her dear child united 
to the man of her heart, but who, there is reason to 
suppose, found this family party somewhat dull, as she 
yawned for one hour continually behind her fan, retired 
to bed. Edith, also, silently withdrew and came back 
no more. Thus, it happened that Florence, who had 
been up-stairs to have some conversation with Diogenes, 
returning to the drawing-room with her little work-bas- 
ket, found no one there but her father, who was walking 
to and fro, in dreary magnificence. 

“ I beg your pardon. Shall I go away, papa ? ” said 
Florence faintly, hesitating at the door. 

“ No,” returned Mr. Dombey, looking round over his 
shoulder ; “ you can come and go here, Florence, as you 
please. This is not my private room.” 

Florence entered, and sat down at a distant little table 
with her work : finding herself for the first time in her 
life — for the very first time within her memory from 
her infancy to that hour — alone with her father, as his 
companion. She, his natural companion, his only child, 
who in her lonely life and grief had known the suffering 
of a breaking heart ; who, in her rejected love, had never 
breathed his name to God at night, but with a tearful 
blessing, heavier on him than a curse ; who had prayed 
to die young, so she might only die in his arms ; 
tvho had, all through, repaid the agony of slight and 
soldness, and dislike, with patient unexacting love, 


i 02 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


excusing him, and pleading for him, like his better 
angel ! 

She trembled, and her eyes were dim. His figure 
seemed to grow in height and bulk before her as he 
paced the room : now it was all blurred and indistinct ; 
now clear again, and plain ; and now she seemed to 
think that this had happened, just the same, a multitude 
of years ago. She yearned towards him, and yet shrunk 
•from his approach. Unnatural emotion in a child, inno- 
cent of wrong ! Unnatural the hand that had directed 
the sharp plough, which furrowed up her gentle nature 
for the sowing of its seeds ! 

Rent upon not distressing or offending him by her 
distress, Florence controlled herself, and sat quietly at 
her work. After a few more turns across and across the 
room, he left off pacing it ; and withdrawing into a shad- 
owy corner at some distance, where there was an easy- 
chair, covered his head with a handkerchief, and com- 
posed himself to sleep. 

It was enough for Florence to sit there, watching 
him ; turning her eyes towards his chair from time to 
time ; watching him with her thoughts, when her face 
was intent upon her work ; and sorrowfully glad to think 
that he could sleep, while she was there, and that he was 
not made restless by her strange and long-forbidden 
presence. 

What would have been her thoughts if she had known 
that he was steadily regarding her ; that the veil upon 
his face, by accident or by design, was so adjusted that 
his sight was free, and that it never wandered from her 
face an instant. That when she looked towards him, in 
the obscure dark corner, her speaking eyes, more earnest 
and pathetic in their voiceless speech than all the orators 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


103 


of all the world, and impeaching him more nearly in 
their mute address, met his, and did not know it. That 
when she bent her head again over her work, he drew 
his breath more easily, but with the same attention 
looked upon her still — upon her white brow and her 
falling hair, and busy hands ; and once attracted, seemed 
to have no power to turn his eyes away ! 

And what were his thoughts meanwhile? With what 
emotions did he prolong the attentive gaze covertly di- 
rected on his unknown daughter ? Was there reproach 
to him in the quiet figure and the mild eyes ? Had he 
begun to feel her disregarded claims, and did they touch 
him home at last, and waken him to some sense of his 
cruel injustice ? 

There are yielding moments in the lives of the stern- 
est and harshest men, though such men often keep their 
secret well. The sight of her in her beauty, almost 
changed into a woman without his knowledge, may have 
struck, out some such moments even in his life of pride. 
Some passing thought fhat he had had a happy home 
within his reach — had had a household spirit bending 
at his feet — had overlooked it in his stiff-necked sullen 
arrogance, and wandered away and lost himself, may 
have engendered them. Some simple eloquence dis- 
tinctly heard, though only uttered in her eyes, uncon- 
scious that he read them, as “ By the death-beds I have 
tended, by the childhood I have suffered, by our meeting 
in this dreary house at midnight, by the cry wrung from 
me in the anguish of my heart, oh, father, turn to me 
and seek a refuge in my love before it is too late ! ” may 
have arrested them. Meaner and lower thoughts, as that 
his dead boy was now superseded by new ties, and he 
;ould forgive the having been supplanted in his affection, 


104 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


may have occasioned them. The mere association of 
her as an ornament, with all the ornament and pomp 
about him, may have been sufficient. But as he looked, 
he softened to her, more and more. As he looked, she 
became blended with the child he had loved, and he 
could hardly separate the two. As he looked, he saw 
ber for an instant by a clearer and a brighter light, not 
bending over that child’s pillow as his rival — monstrous 
thought — but as the spirit of his home, and in the ac- 
tion tending himself no less, as he sat once more with 
his bowed-down head upon his hand at the foot of the 
little bed. He felt inclined to speak to her, and call her 
to him. The words “ Florence, come here ! ” were rising 
to his lips — but slowly and with difficulty, they were so 
very strange — when they were checked and stifled by 
a footstep on the stair. 

It was his wife’s. She had exchanged her dinner- 
dress for a loose robe, and unbound her hair, which fell 
freely about her neck. But this was not the change in 
her that startled him. 

“ Florence, dear,” she said, u I have been looking for 
you everywhere.” 

As she sat down by the side of Florence, she stooped 
and kissed her hand. He hardly knew his wife. She 
was so changed. It was not merely that her smile was 
new to him — though that he had never seen ; but her 
manner, the tone of her voice, the light of her eyes, 
the interest, and confidence, and winning wish to please, 
expressed in all — this was not Edith. 

“ Softly, dear mama. Papa is asleep.” 

It was Edith now. She looked towards the corner 
where he was, and he knew that face and manner very 
well. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


105 


“ I scarcely thought you could be here, Florence.” 

Again, how altered and how softened, in an instant ! 

“ I left here early,” pursued Edith, “ purposely to sit 
ap-stairs and talk with you. But, going to your room, 
I found my bird was flown, and T have been waiting 
there ever since, expecting its return.” 

If it had been a bird, indeed, she could not have 
taken it more tenderly and gently to her breast, than 
she did Florence. 

“ Come, dear ! ” 

“ Papa will not expect to find me, I suppose, when he 
wakes,” hesitated Florence. 

“ Do you think he will, Florence ? ” said Edith, look- 
ing full upon her. 

Florence drooped her head, and rose, and put up her 
work-basket. Edith drew her hand through her arm, 
and they went out of the room like sisters. Her very 
step was different and new to him, Mr. Dombey thought, 
as his eyes followed her to the door. 

He sat in his shadowy corner so long, that the church 
clocks struck the hour three times before he moved that 
night. All that while his face was still intent upon 
the spot where Florence had been seated. The room 
grew darker, as the candles waned and went out ; but 
a darkness gathered on his face, exceeding any that the 
night could cast, and rested there. 

Florence and Edith, seated before the fire in the re- 
mote room where little Paul had died, talked together 
for a long time. Diogenes, who was of the party, had 
at first objected to the admission of Edith, and, even in 
deference to his mistress’s wish, had only permitted it 
under growling protest. But, emerging by little and 
little from the ante-room, whither he had retired in 


106 


DOMBEY AND SON 


dudgeon, he soon appeared to comprehend, that with the 
most amiable intentions he had made one of those mis- 
takes which will occasionally arise in the best-regulated 
dogs’ minds ; as a friendly apology for which he stuck 
himself up on end between the two, in a very hot place 
in front of the fire, and sat panting at it, with his tongue 
out, and a most imbecile expression of countenance, lis- 
tening to the conversation. 

It turned, at first, on Florence’s books and favorite 
pursuits, and on the manner in which she had beguiled 
the interval since the marriage. The last theme opened 
up to her a subject which lay very near her heart, and 
she said, with the tears starting to her eyes : 

“ Oh, mama ! I have had a great sorrow since that 
day.” 

“ You a great sorrow, Florence ! ” 

“ Yes. Poor Walter is drowned.” 

Florence spread her hands before her face, and wept 
with all her heart. Many as were the secret tears which 
Walter’s fate had cost her, they flowed yet, when she 
thought or spoke of him. 

“But tell me, dear,” said Edith, soothing her. “ Who 
was Walter ? What was he to you ? ” 

“ He was my brother, mama. After dear Paul died, 
we said we would be brother and sister. I had known 
him a long time — from a little child. He knew Paul, 
who liked him very much ; Paul said, almost at the last, 
i Take care of Walter, dear papa ! I was fond of him !’ 
Walter had been brought in to see him, and was there 
then — in this room.” 

“ And did he take care of Walter ? ” inquired Edith, 
sternly. 

“ Papa ? He appointed him to go abroad. He was 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


107 


drowned in shipwreck on his voyage,” said Florence, 
sobbing. 

“ Does he know that he is dead ? ” asked Edith. 

“ I cannot tell, mama. I have no means of knowing. 
Dear mama ! ” cried Florence, clinging to her as for 
help, and hiding her face upon her bosom, “ I know that 
you have seen ” — 

“ Stay ! Stop, Florence,” Edith turned so pale, and 
spoke so earnestly, that Florence did not need her re- 
straining hand upon her lips. “ Tell me all about Wal- 
ter first ; let me understand this history all through.” 

Florence related it, and everything belonging to it, 
even down to the friendship of Mr. Toots, of whom she 
could hardly speak in her distress without a tearful smile, 
although she was deeply grateful to him. When she had 
concluded her account, to the whole of which Edith, 
holding her hand, listened with close attention, and when 
a silence had succeeded, Edith said : 

“ What is it that you know I have seen, Florence ? ” 

“ That I am not,” said Florence, with the same mute 
appeal, and the same quick concealment of her face a3 
before, “ that I am not a favorite child, mama. I never 
have been. I have never known how to be. I have 
missed the way, and had no one to show it to me. Oh, 
let me learn from you, how to become dearer to papa. 
Teach me I you, who can so well ! ” and clinging closer 
to her, with some broken fervent words of gratitude and 
endearment, Florence, relieved of her sad secret, wept 
long, but not as painfully as of yore, within the encircling 
arms of her new mother. 

Pale, even to her lips, and with a face that strove for 
composure until its proud beauty was as fixed as death, 
Edith looked down upon the weeping girl, and once 


108 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


kissed her. Then gradually disengaging herself, and 
putting Florence away, she said, stately and quiet, as a 
marble image, and in a voice that deepened as she spoke, 
but had no other token of emotion in it : 

“ Florence, you do not know me ! Heaven forbid that 
you should learn from me ! ” 

“ Not learn from you ? ” repeated Florence, in sur- 
prise. 

“ That I should teach you how to love, or be loved, 
Heaven forbid ! ” said Edith. “ If you could teach me, 
that were better ; but it is too late. You are dear to 
me, Florence. I did not think that anything could ever 
be so dear to me, as you are in this little time.” 

She saw that Florence would have spoken here, so 
checked her with her hand, and went on. 

“ I will be your true friend always. I will cherish 
you as much, if not as well as any one in this world 
could. You may trust in me — I know it and I say it, 
dear, — with the whole confidence even of your pure 
heart. There are hosts of women whom he might have 
married, better and truer in all other respects than I am, 
Florence ; but there is not one who could come here, 
his wife., whose heart could beat with greater truth to 
you than mine does.” 

“I know it, dear mama!” cried Florence. “From 
that first most happy day I have known it.” 

“ Most happy day ! ” Edith seemed to repeat the 
words involuntarily, and went on. “ Though the merit 
is not mine, for I thought little of you until I saw you, 
let the undesBrved reward be mine in your trust and 
love. And in this — in this, Florence ; on the first 
night of my taking up my abode here ; I am led on as 
it is best I should be, to say it for the. first and last 
time.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


109 


Florence, without knowing why, felt almost afraid to 
hear her proceed, but kept her eyes riveted on the beau- 
tiful face so fixed upon her own. 

“ Never seek to find in me,” said Edith, laying her 
hand upon her breast, “ what is not here. Never if you 
can help it, Florence, fall off* from me because it is not 
here. Little by little you will know me better, and the 
time will come when you will know me, as I know my- 
self. Then, be as lenient to me as you can, and do not 
turn to bitterness the only sweet remembrance I shall 
have.” 

The tears that were visible in her eyes as she kept 
them fixed on Florence, showed that the composed face 
was but as a handsome mask ; but she preserved it, and 
continued : 

“ I have seen what you say, and know how true it is. 
But believe me — you will soon, if you cannot now — 
there is no one on this earth less qualified to set it right; 
or help you, Florence, than I. Never ask me why, or 
speak to me about it or of my husband, more. There 
should be, so far, a division, and a silence between us 
two, like the grave itself.” 

She sat for some, time silent ; Florence scarcely ven- 
turing to breathe meanwhile, as dim and imperfect shad- 
ows of the truth, and all its daily consequences, chased 
each other through her terrified, yet incredulous imagi- 
nation. Almost as soon as she had ceased to speak, 
Edith’s face began to subside from its set composure to 
that quieter and more relenting aspect, which it usually 
, wore when she and Florence were alone together. She 
shaded it, after this change, with her hands ; and when 
she arose, and with an affectionate embrace bade Flor- 
ence good-night, went quickly, and without looking 
round. 


110 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


But when Florence was in bed, and the room wag 
dark except for the glow of the fire, Edith returned, and 
saying that she could not sleep, and that her dressing- 
room was lonely, drew a chair upon the hearth, and 
watched the embers as they died away. Florence 
watched them too from her bed, until they, and the 
noble figure before them, crowned with its flowing hair, 
and in its thoughtful eyes reflecting back their light, be- 
came confused and indistinct, and finally were lost in 
slumber. 

In her sleep, however, Florence could not lose an un- 
defined impression of what had so recently passed. It 
formed the subject of her dreams, and haunted her ; now 
in one shape, now in another; but always oppressively; 
and with a sense of fear. She dreamed of seeking her 
father in wildernesses, of following his track up fearful 
heights, and down into deep mines and caverns ; of being 
charged with something that would release him from 
extraordinary suffering — she knew not what, or why — 
yet never being able to attain the goal and set him free. 
Then she saw him dead, upon that very bed, and in that 
very room, and knew that he had never loved her to the 
last, and fell upon his cold breast, passionately weeping. 
Then a prospect opened, and a river flowed, and a plain- 
tive voice she knew, cried, “ It is running on, Floy ! It 
has never stopped ! You are moving with it ! ” And 
she saw him at a distance stretching out his arms towards 
her, while a figure such as Walter’s used to be, stood 
near him, awfully serene and still. In every vision, 
Edith came and went, sometimes to her joy, sometimes 
to her sorrow, until they were alone upon the brink of a 
dark grave, and Edith pointing down, she looked and 
saw — what ! — another Edith lying at the bottom. 


DOMBEY AND v SON. 


m 


In the terror of this dream, she cried out, and awoke 
she thought. A soft voice seemed to whisper in her ear 
“ Florence, dear Florence, it is nothing but a dream ! ” 
and stretching out her arms, she returned the caress of 
her new mama, who then went out at the door in the 
light of the gray morning. In a moment, Florence sat 
up wondering whether this had really taken place or 
not ; but she was only certain that it was gray morning 
indeed, and that the blackened ashes of the fire were on 
the hearth, and that she was alone. 

So passed the night on which the happy pair came 
home. 


DoMtiEY AND SON. 


i u 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

HOUSE-WARMING. 

Many succeeding days passed in like manner; ex* 
cept that there were numerous visits received and paid, 
and that Mrs. Skewton held little levees in her own 
apartments, at which Major Bagstock was a frequent 
attendant, and that Florence encountered no second look 
from her father, although she saw him every day. Nor 
had she much communication in words, with her new 
mama, who was imperious and proud to all the house but 
her — Florence could not but observe that — and who, 
although she always sent for her or went to her when 
she came home from visiting, and would always go into 
her room at night, before retiring to rest, however late 
the hour, and never lost an opportunity of being with 
her, was often her silent and thoughtful companion for a 
long time together. 

Florence, who had hoped for so much from this mar- 
riage, could not help sometimes comparing the bright 
house with the faded dreary place out of which it had 
arisen, and wondering when, in any shape, it would begin 
to be a home ; for that it was no home then, for any 
one, though everything went on luxuriously and regu- 
larly, she had always a secret misgiving. Many an hour 
of sorrowful reflection by day and night, and many a 
tear of blighted hope, Florence bestowed upon the as- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


113 


surance her new mama had given her so strongly, that 
there was no one on the earth more powerless than her- 
self to teach her how to win her father’s heart. And 
soon Florence began to think — resolved to think would 
be the truer phrase — that as no one knew so well, how 
hopeless of being subdued or changed her father’s cold- 
ness to her was, so she had given her this warning, and 
forbidden the subject in very compassion. Unselfish 
here, as in her every act and fancy, Florence preferred 
to bear the pain of this new wound, rather than en- 
courage any faint foreshadowings of the truth as it con- 
cerned her father ; tender of him, even in her wander- 
ing thoughts. As for his home, she hoped it would 
become a better one, when its state of novelty and 
transition should be over : and for herself, thought little, 
and lamented less. 

If none of the new family were particularly at home 
in private, it was resolved that Mrs. Dombey at least 
should be at home in public, without delay. A series, 
of entertainments in celebration of the late nuptials, and 
in cultivation of society, were arranged chiefly by Mr. 
Dombey and Mrs. Skewton ; and it was settled that the 
festive proceedings should commence by Mrs. Dombey’a 
being at home upon a certain even/mg, and by Mr. and 
Mrs. Dombey’s requesting the honor of the company of 
a great many incongruous p/eople to dinner on the same 
day. 

Accordingly Mr. Dombey produced a list of sundry 
eastern magnates v>ho were to be bidden to this feast 
on his behalf; * 0 vhich Mrs, Skewton, acting for her 
dearest child, w^q was haughtily careless on the sub- 
ject, subje^np^ ^ western list, comprising Cousin Feenix, 
not ye* r^vmed to Baden Baden, greatly to the detri- 
voo. hi. g 


m 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


menr of his personal estate ; and a variety of moths of 
various degrees and ages, who had, at various times, 
fluttered round the light of her fair daughter, or her- 
self, without any lasting injury to their wings. Florence 
was enrolled as a member of the dinner-party, by Edith’s 
command — elicited by a moment’s doubt and hesitation 
on the part of Mrs. Skew ton ; and Florence, with a 
wondering heart, and with a quick instinctive sense of 
everything that grated on her father in the least, took 
her silent share in the proceedings of the day. 

The proceedings commenced by Mr. Dombey, in a 
cravat of extraordinary height and stiffness, walking rest- 
lessly about the drawing-room until the hour appointed 
for dinner ; punctual to which, an East India Director, 
of immense wealth, in a waistcoat apparently constructed 
in serviceable deal by some plain carpenter, but really 
engendered in the tailor’s art, and composed of the ma- 
terial called nankeen, arrived, and was received by Mr. 
Dombey alone. The next stage of the proceedings was 
Mr. Dombey sending his compliments to Mrs. Dombey, 
with a correct statement of the time ; and the next, the 
East India Director’s falling prostrate, in a conversa- 
tional point of view, and as Mr. Dombey was not the 
man to pick him up, staring at the fire until rescue 
appeared in the person of Mrs. Skew ton ; whom the 
Director, as a pleasant start in life for the evening, 
mistook for Mrs. Dombey, and greeted with enthu- 
siasm. 

The next arrival was a Bank Director, reputed to be 
able to buy up anything — human Nature generally, if 
he should take it in his head to influence the money 
market in that direction — but who was a wonderfully 
modest-spoken man, almost boastfully so, and mentioned 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


115 


his “ little place ” at Kingston-upon-Thames, and its just 
being barely equal to giving Dombey a bed and a chop, 
if he would come and visit it. Ladies, he said, it was 
not for a man who lived in his quiet way to take upon 
himself to invite — but if Mrs. Skewton and her 
daughter, Mrs. Dombey, should ever find themselves in 
that* direction, and would do him the honor to look at a 
little bit of a shrubbery they would find there, and a 
poor little flower-bed or so, and a humble apology for a 
pinery, and two or three little attempts of that sort with- 
out any pretension, they would distinguish him very 
much. Carrying out his character, this gentleman was 
very plainly dressed, in a wisp of cambric for a neck- 
cloth, big shoes, a coat that was too loose for him, and a 
pair of trousers that were too spare ; and mention being 
made of the Opera by Mrs. Skewton, he said he very 
seldom went there, for he couldn’t afford it. It seemed 
greatly to delight and exhilarate him to say so ; and he 
beamed on his audience afterwards, with his hands in his 
pockets, and excessive satisfaction twinkling in his eyes. 

Now Mrs. Dombey appeared, beautiful and proud, 
and as disdainful and defiant of them all as if the bridal 
wreath upon her head had been a garland of steel spikes 
put on to force concession from her which she would die 
sooner than yield. With her was Florence. When 
they entered together, the shadow of the night of the 
return again darkened Mr. Dombey’s face. But unob- 
served : for Florence did not venture to raise her eyes 
to his, and Edith’s indifference was too supreme to take 
the least heed of him. 

The arrivals quickly became numerous. More direo- 
ors, chairmen of public companies, elderly ladies carry- 
ing burdens on their heads for full dress, Cousin Feenix, 


116 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Major Bagstock, friends of Mrs. Skewton, with the same 
bright bloom on their complexion, and very precious 
necklaces on very withered necks. Among these, a 
young lady of sixty-five, remarkably coolly dressed as to 
her back and shoulders, who spoke with an engaging 
lisp, and whose eyelids wouldn’t keep up well, without a 
great deal of trouble on her part, and whose manners 
had that indefinable charm which so frequently attaches 
to the giddiness of youth. As the greater part of Mr. 
Dcmbey’s list were disposed to be taciturn, and the 
greater part of Mrs. Dombey’s list were disposed to be 
talkative, and there was no sympathy between them, 
Mrs. Dombey’s list, by magnetic agreement, entered 
into a bond of union against Mr. Dombey’s list, who, 
wandering about the rooms in a desolate manner, or 
seeking refuge in corners, entangled themselves with 
company coming in, and became barricaded behind sofas, 
and had doors opened smartly from without against their 
heads, and underwent every sort of discomfiture. 

When dinner was announced, Mr. Dombey took down 
an old lady like a crimson velvet pincushion stuffed with 
bank-notes, who might have been the identical old lady 
of Threadneedle-street, she was so rich, and looked so 
unaccommodating; Cousin Feenix took down Mrs. Dom- 
bey ; Major Bagstock took down Mrs. Skewton ; the 
young thing with the shoulders was bestowed, as an ex- 
tirguisher, upon the East India Director ; and the re- 
maining ladies were left on view in the drawing-room 
by the remaining gentlemen, until a forlorn hope volun- 
teered to conduct them down-stairs, and those brave 
spirits with their captives blocked up the dining-room 
door, shutting out seven mild men in the stony-hearted 
hall. When all the rest were got in and were seated, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


117 


one of these mild men still appeared, i:i smiling con- 
fusion, totally destitute, and unprovided for, and, escorted 
by rhe butler, made the complete circuit of the table 
twice before his chair could be found, which it finally 
was, on Mrs. Dombey’s left hand; after which the mild 
man never held up his head again. 

Now, the spacious dining-room, with the company 
seated round the glittering table, busy with their glitter- 
ing spoons, and knives and forks, and plates, might have 
been taken for a grown-up exposition of Tom Tiddler’s 
ground, where children pick up gold and silver. Mr. 
Dombey, as Tiddler, looked his character to admiration ; 
and the long plateau of precious metal frosted, separat- 
ing him from Mrs. Dombey, whereon frosted Cupids 
offered scentless flowers to each of them, was allegorical 
to see. 

Cousin Feenix was in great force, and looked aston- 
ishingly young. But he was sometimes thoughtless in 
his good humor — his memory occasionally wandering 
like his legs — and on this occasion caused the company 
to shudder. It happened thus. The young lady with 
the back, who regarded Cousin Feenix with sentiments 
of tenderness, had entrapped the East India Director 
into leading her to the chair next him : in return for 
which good office she immediately abandoned the Di- 
rector who, being shaded on the other side by a gloomy 
black velvet hat surmounting a bony and speechless 
female with a fan, yielded to a depression of spirits and 
withdrew into himself. Cousin Feenix and the young 
lady were very lively and humorous, and the young lady 
.aughed so much at something Cousin Feenix related tq 
her, that Major Bagstock begged leave to inquire on 
behalf of Mrs, Skewton (they were sitting opposite ? a 


118 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


little lower down), whether that might not be considered 
public property. 

“ Why, upon my life,” said Cousin Feenix, “there’s 
nothing in it ; it really is not worth repeating ; in point 
of fact, it’s merely an anecdote of Jack Adams. I dare 
say my friend Dombey ; ” for the general attention was 
concentrated on Cousin Feenix; “ may remember Jack 
Adams, Jack Adams, not Joe; that was his brother. 
Jack — little Jack — man with a cast in his eye, and a 
slight impediment in his speech — man who sat for some- 
body’s borough. We used to call him in my parliamen- 
tary time W. P. Adams, in consequence of his being 
Warming Pan for a young fellow who was in his minor- 
ity. Perhaps my friend Dombey may have known the 
man?” 

Mr. Dombey, who was as likely to have known Guy 
Fawkes, replied in the negative. But one of the seven 
mild men unexpectedly leaped into distinction, by saying 
he had known him, and adding, — “ always wore Hessian 
boots ! ” 

“Exactly,” said Cousin Feenix, bending forward to 
see the mild man, and smile encouragement at him down 
the table. “ That was Jack-. Joe wore ” — 

“ Tops ! ” cried the mild man, rising in public estima- 
tion every instant. 

“ Of course,” said Cousin Feenix, “you were intimate 
with ’em ? ” 

“ I knew them both,” said the mild man. With whom 
Mr. Dombey immediately took wine. 

“Devilish good fellow, Jack?” said Cousin Feenix, 
again bending forward, and smiling. 

“ Excellent,” returned the mild man, becoming bold 
on his success. “ One of the best fellows I ever knew.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


119 


u No doubt you have heard the story ? ” said Cousin 
Feenix. 

“ I shall know,” replied the bold mild man, “ when I 
have heard your Ludship tell it.” With that, he leaned 
hack in his chair and smiled at the ceiling, as knowing it 
by heart, and being already tickled. 

“In point of fact, it’s nothing of a story in itself,” said 
Cousin Feenix, addressing the table with a smile, and a 
gay shake of his head, “ and not worth a word of preface. 
But it’s illustrative of the neatness of Jack’s humor. 
The fact is, that Jack was invited down to a marriage — 
which I think took place in Barkshire ? ” 

“ Shropshire,” said the bold mild man, finding himself 
appealed to. 

“Was it? well! In point of fact it might have been 
in any shire,” said Cousin Feenix. “So, my friend 
being invited down to this marriage in Anyshire,” with a 
pleasant sense of the readiness of this joke, “ goes. Just 
as some of us having had the honor of being invited to 
the marriage of my lovely and accomplished relative 
with my friend Dombey, didn’t require to be asked twice, 
and were devilish glad to be present on so interesting an 
occasion. — Goes — Jack goes. Now, this marriage 
was, in point of fact, the marriage of an uncommonly 
fine girl with a man for whom she didn’t care a button, 
but whom she accepted on account of his property, which 
was immense. When Jack returned to town, after the 
nuptials, a man he knew, meeting' him in the lobby of 
the House of Commons, says, 4 Well, Jack, how are the 
ill-matched couple ? ’ 4 Ill-matched,’ says Jack. 4 Not 

at all. It’s a perfectly fair and equal transaction. She 
»s regularly bought, and you may take your oath he is 
as regularly sold ! ’ ” 


120 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


In his full enjoyment of this culminating point of his 
story the shudder, which had gone all round the table 
like an electric spark, struck Cousin Feenix, and he 
stopped. Not a smile occasioned by the only general 
topic of conversation broached that day, appeared on any 
lace. A profound silence ensued ; and the wretched 
mild man, who had been as innocent of any real fore- 
knowledge of the story as the child unborn, had the ex- 
quisite misery of reading in every eye that he was re- 
garded as the prime mover of the mischief. 

Mr. Dombey’s face was not a changeful one, and being 
cast in its mould of state that day, showed little other 
apprehension of the story, if any, than that which he 
expressed when he said solemnly, amidst the silence, 
that it was 41 Very good.” There was a rapid glance 
from Edith towards Florence, but otherwise she re- 
mained, externally, impassive and unconscious. 

Through the various stages of rich meats and wines, 
continual gold and silver, dainties of earth, air, fire, and 
water, heaped-up fruits, and that unnecessary article in 
Mr. Dombey’s banquets — ice — the dinner slowly made 
its way ; the later stages being achieved to the sono- 
rous music of incessant double knocks, announcing the 
arrival of visitors, whose portion of the feast was limited 
to the smell thereof. When Mrs. Dombey rose, it was 
a sight to see her lord, with stiff throat, and erect head, 
hold the door open for the withdrawal of the ladies ; 
and to see how she swept past him with his daughter 
on her arm. 

Mr. Dombey was a grave sight, behind the decanters, 
in a state of dignity ; and the East India Director was 
a forlorn sight, near the unoccupied end of the table, in 
a state of solitude ; and the major was a military sight. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


121 


relating stories of the Duke of York to six of the seven 
mild men (the ambitious one was utterly quenched) ; and 
the Bank Director was a lowly sight, making a plan of 
his little attempt at a pinery, with dessert-knives, for a 
group of admirers ; and Cousin Feenix was a thought- 
ful sight, as he smoothed his long wristbands and stealth- 
ily adjusted his wig. But all these sights were of short 
duration, being speedily broken up by coffee, and the 
desertion of the room. 

There was a throng in the state-rooms up-stairs, in- 
creasing every minute ; but still Mr. Dombey’s list of 
visitors appeared to have some native impossibility of 
amalgamation with Mrs. Dombey ’s list, and no one could 
have doubted which was which. The single exception 
to this rule perhaps was Mr. Carker, who now smiled 
among the company, and who, as he stood in the circle 
that was gathered about Mrs. Dombey — watchful of her, 
of them, his chief, Cleopatra, and the major, Florence, 
and everything around — appeared at ease with both 
divisions of guests, and not marked as exclusively be- 
longing to either. 

Florence had a dread of him, which made his presence 
in the room a nightmare to her. She could not avoid 
the recollection of it, for her eyes were drawn towards 
him every now and then, by an attraction of dislike and 
distrust that she could not resist. Yet her thoughts were 
busy with other things ; for as she sat apart — not unad- 
mired or unsought, but in the gentleness of her quiet spirit 
— she felt how little part her father had in what was 
going on, and saw, with pain, how ill at ease he seemed 
to be, and how little regarded he was as he lingered 
about near the door, for those visitors whom he wished 
to distinguish with particular attention, and took them 


122 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


up to introduce them to his wife, who received them with 
proud coldness, but showed no interest or wish to please, 
and never, after the bare ceremony of reception, in con- 
sultation of his wishes, or in welcome of his friends, 
opened her lips. It was not the less perplexing or pain- 
ful to Florence, that she who acted thus, treated her so 
kindly, and with such loving consideration, that it almost 
seemed an ungrateful return on her part even to know 
of what was passing before her eyes. 

Happy Florence would have been, might she have 
ventured to bear her father company, by so much as a 
look ; and happy Florence was, in little suspecting the 
main cause of his uneasiness. But afraid of seeming to 
know that he was placed at any disadvantage, lest he 
should be resentful of that knowledge ; and divided be- 
tween her impulse towards him, and her grateful affection 
for Edith ; she scarcely dared to raise her eyes towards 
either. Anxious and unhappy for them both, the thought 
stole on her through the crowd, that it might have been 
better for them if this noise of tongues and tread of feet 
had never come there, — if the old dulness and decay 
had never been replaced by novelty and splendor, — if 
the neglected child had found no friend in Edith, but 
had lived her solitary life, unpitied and forgotten. 

Airs. Chick had some such thoughts too, but they were 
not so quietly developed in her mind. This good matron 
had been outraged in the first instance by not receiv- 
ing an invitation to dinner. That blow partially recov- 
ered, she had gone to a vast expense to make such a 
figure before Airs. Dombey at home, as should dazzle 
the senses of that lady, and heap mortification, moun- 
tains high, on the head of Airs. Skewton. 

“ But I am made,” said Airs. Chick to Air Chick, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


123 


u of no more account than Florence ! Who takes the 
gmallest notice of me ? No one ! ” 

“ No one, my dear,” assented Mr. Chick, who was 
seated by the side of Mrs. Chick against the wall, and 
could console himself, even there, by softly whistling. 

“ Does it at all appear as if I was wanted here ? ” 
exclaimed Mrs. Chick, with flashing eyes. 

“ No, my dear, I don’t think it does,” said Mr. Chick. 

“ Paul’s mad ! ” said Mrs. Chick. 

Mr. Chick whistled. 

“ Unless you are a monster, which I sometimes think 
you are,” said Mrs. Chick with candor, “ don’t sit there 
humming tunes. How any one with the most distant 
feelings of a man, can see that mother-in-law of Paul’s, 
dressed as she is, going on like that, with Major Bag- 
stock, for whom, among other precious things, we are 
indebted to your Lucretia Tox ” — 

“ My Lucretia Tox, my dear ! ” said Mr. Chick 
astounded. 

“ Yes,” retorted Mrs. Chick, with great severity, “ your 
Lucretia Tox — I say how anybody can see that mother- 
in-law of Paul’s, and that haughty wife of Paul’s, and 
these indecent old frights with their backs and shoulders, 
and in short this at home generally, and hum,” — on 
which word Mrs. Chick laid a scornful emphasis that 
.made Mr. Chick start, “ is, I thank Heaven, a mystery 
to me!” 

Mr. Chick screwed his mouth into a form irreconcib 
able with humming or whistling, and looked very con- 
templative. 

“ But I hope I know what is due to myself,” said Mrs. 
Chick, swelling with indignation, “ though Paul has for- 
gotten what is due to me. I am not going to sit here. 


124 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a member of this family, to be taken no notice of. I 
am not the dirt under Mrs. Dombey’s feet, yet — not 
quite yet,” said Mrs. Chick, as if she expected to become 
so, about the day after to-morrow. “ And I shall go. I 
will not say (whatever I may think) that this affair has 
been got up solely to degrade and insult me. I shall 
merely go. I shall not be missed ! ” 

Mrs. Chick rose erect with these words, and took the 
arm of Mr. Chick, who escorted her from the room, after 
half an hour’s shady sojourn there. And it is due to 
her penetration to observe that she certainly was not 
missed at all. 

But she was not the only indignant guest ; for Mr. 
Dombey’s list (still constantly in difficulties) were, as a 
body, indignant with Mrs. Dombey’s list, for looking at 
them through eye-glasses, and audibly wondering who all 
those people were ; while Mrs. Dombey’s list complained 
of weariness, and the young thing with the shoulders, 
deprived of the attentions of that gay youth Cousin 
Feenix (who went away from the dinner-table), con- 
fidentially alleged to thirty or forty friends that she was 
bored to death. All the old ladies with the burdens 
on their heads, had greater or less cause of complaint 
against Mrs. Dombey ; and the directors and chairmen 
coincided in thinking that if Dombey must marry, he 
had better have married somebody nearer his own age, 
not quite so handsome, and a little better off. The gen- 
eral opinion among this class of gentlemen was, that it 
was a weak thing in Dombey, and he’d live to repent 
it. Hardly anybody there, except the mild men, stayed, 
or went away, without considering himself or herselt 
neglected and aggrieved by Mr. Dombey or Mrs. Dom- 
bey ; and the speechless female in the black velvet hat 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


125 


was found to have been stricken mute, because the lady 
in the crimson velvet had been handed down before her. 
The nature even of the -mild men got corrupted, either 
from their curdling it with too much lemonade, or from 
the general inoculation that prevailed ; and they made 
sarcastic jokes to one another, and whispered disparage- 
ment on stairs and in by-places. The general dissatis- 
faction and discomfort so diffused itself, that the assem- 
bled footmen in the hall were as well acquainted with 
it as the company above. Nay, the very linkmen outside 
got hold of it, and compared the party to a funeral out 
of mourning, with none of the company remembered in 
the will. 

At last, the guests were all gone, and the linkmen 
too ; and the street, crowded so long with carriages, was 
clear ; and the dying lights showed no one in the rooms, 
but Mr. Dombey and Mr. Carker, who were talking to- 
gether apart, and Mrs. Dombey and her mother: the 
former seated on an ottoman ; the latter reclining in the 
Cleopatra attitude, awaiting the arrival of her maid. Mr. 
Dombey having finished his communication to Carker, 
the latter advanced obsequiously to take leave. 

“ I trust,” he said, “ that the fatigues of this delight- 
ful evening jvill not inconvenience Mrs. Dombey to- 
morrow.” 

“ Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dombey, advancing, “ has 
sufficiently spared herself fatigue, to relieve you from 
any anxiety of that kind. I regret to say, Mrs. Dom- 
bey, that I could have wished you had fatigued your- 
self a little more on this occasion.” 

She looked at him with a supercilious glance, that it 
seemed not worth her while to protract, and turned away 
her eyes without speaking. 


126 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


4 ‘ I am sorry, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, “ that you 
should not have thought it your duty ” — 

She looked at him again. 

“ Your duty, madam,” pursued Mr. Dombey, “ to have 
received my friends with a little more deference. Some 
of those whom you have been pleased to slight to-night 
in a very marked manner, Mrs. Dombey, confer a dis- 
tinction upon you, I must tell you, in any visit they pay 
you.” 

“ Do you know that there is some one here ? ” she 
returned, now looking at him steadily. 

“ No ! Carker ! I beg that you do not. I insist that 
you do not,” cried Mr. Dombey, stopping that noiseless 
gentleman in his withdrawal. “ Mr. Carker, madam, as 
you know, possesses my confidence. He is as well ac- 
quainted as myself with the subject on which I speak. 
I beg to tell you, for your information, Mrs. Dombey, 
that I consider these wealthy and important persons con- 
fer a distinction upon me : ” and Mr. Dombey drew him- 
self up, as having now rendered them of the highest 
possible importance. 

“ I ask you,” she repeated, bending her disdainful, 
steady gaze upon him, “ do you know that there is some 
one here, sir ? ” 

7 • 

“ I must entreat,” said Mr. Carker, stepping forward, 

“I must beg, I must demand, to be released. Slight and 
unimportant as this difference is ” — 

Mrs. Skewton, who had been intent upon her daugh- 
ter’s face, took him up here. 

“ My sweetest Edith,” she said, “ and my dearest 
Dombey ; our excellent friend Mr. Carker, for so I am 
lure I ought to mention him ” — 

Mr. Carker murmured, “ Too much honor.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


127 


— “ has used the very words that were in my mind, 
and that I have been dying, these ages, for an oppor- 
tunity of introducing. Slight and unimportant ! My 
sweetest Edith, and my dearest Dombey, do we not 
know that any difference between you two — No, Flow- 
ers ; not now.” 

Flowers was the maid, who, finding gentlemen present, 
retreated with precipitation. 

“That any difference between you two,” resumed Mrs. 
Skewton, “ with the heart you possess in common, and 
the excessively charming bond of feeling that there is 
between you, must be slight and unimportant ? What 
words could better define the fact ? None. Therefore 
I am glad to take this slight occasion — this trifling 
occasion, that is so replete with Nature, and your indi- 
vidual characters, and all that — so truly calculated to 
bring the tears into a parent’s eyes — to say that I 
attach no importance to them in the least, except as 
developing these minor elements of Soul ; and that, un- 
like most mamas-in-law (that odious phrase, dear Dom- 
bey ! ) as they have been represented to me to exist in 
this I fear too artificial world, I never shall attempt to 
interpose between you, at such a time, and never can 
much regret, after all, such little flashes of the torch of 
What’s-his-name — not Cupid, but the other delightful 
creature.” 

There was a sharpness in the good mother’s glance 
at both her children as she spoke, that may have been 
expressive of a direct and well-considered purpose hid- 
den between these rambling words. That purpose, prov- 
idently to detach herself in the beginning from all. the 
clank-in gs of their chain that were to come, and to 
3helter herself with the fiction of her innocent belief 


128 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


in their mutual affection, and their adaptation to each 
other. 

“ I have pointed out to Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr 
Dombey, in his most stately manner. that in her con- 
duct thus early in our married life, to which I object, 
and which, I request, may be corrected. Carker,” with 
a nod of dismissal, “ good-night to you ! ” 

Mr. Carker bowed to the imperious form of the bride, 
whose sparkling eye was fixed upon her husband ; and 
stopping at Cleopatra’s couch on his way out, raised to 
his lips the hand she graciously extended to him, in 
lowly and admiring homage. 

If his handsome wife had reproached him, or even 
changed countenance, or broken the silence in which 
she remained, by one word, now that they were alone 
(for Cleopatra made off with all speed), Mr. Dombey 
would have been equal to some assertion of his case 
against her. But the intense, unutterable, withering 
scorn, with which, after looking upon him, she dropped 
her eyes as if he were too worthless and indifferent to 
her to be challenged with a syllable — the ineffable dis- 
dain and haughtiness in which she sat before him — the 
cold inflexible resolve with which her every feature 
seemed to bear him down, and put him by — he had 
no resource against ; and he left her, with her whole 
overbearing beauty concentrated on despising him. 

Was he coward enough to watch her, an hour after- 
wards, on the old well staircase, where he had once seen 
Florence in the moonlight, toiling up with Paul ? Or 
was he in the dark by accident, when, looking up, he 
saw her coming, with a light, from the room where Flor- 
ence lay, and marked again the face so changed,' which 
\e could not subdue. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


129 


But it could never alter as his own did. It never, in 
its utmost pride and passion, knew the shadow that had 
fallen on his, in the dark corner, on the night of the re- 
turn ; and often since ; and which deepened on it now 
as he looked up 


TGI. EEL 


130 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

MORE WARNINGS THAN ONE. 

Florence, Edith, and Mrs. Skewton were together 
next day, and the carriage was waiting at the door to 
take them out. For Cleopatra had her galley again 
now, and Withers, no longer fhe wan, stood upright in 
a pigeon-breasted jacket and military trousers, behind 
her wheel-less chair at dinner-time, and butted no ruore. 
The hair of Withers was radiant with pomatum, in these 
days of down, and he w 7 ore kid gloves and smelt of the 
water of Cologne. 

They were assembled in Cleopatra’s room. The Ser- 
pent of old Nile (not to mention her disrespectfully) was 
reposing on her sofa, sipping her morning chocolate at 
three o’clock in the afternoon, and Flow'ers the maid was 
fastening on her youthful cuffs and frills, and performing 
a kind of private coronation ceremony on her, with a 
peach-colored velvet bonnet ; the artificial roses in which 
nodded to uncommon advantage, as the palsy trifled with 
them, like a breeze. 

“ I think I am a little nervous this morning, Flowers,” 
said Mrs. Skewton. “ My hand quite shakes.” 

“ You were the life of the party last night, ma’am, you 
Know,” returned Flowers, “ and you suffer for it to-day, 
you see.” 

Edith, who had beckoned Florence to the window, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


131 


was looking out, with her back turned on the toilet of 
her esteemed mother, suddenly withdrew from it, as if it 
had lightened. 

“ My darling child,” cried Cleopatra, languidly, “ you 
are not nervous ? Don’t tell me, my dear Edith, that 
you, so enviably self-possessed, are beginning to be a 
martyr too, like your unfortunately constituted mother ! 
Withers, some one at the door.” 

“ Card, ma’am,” said Withers, taking it towards Mrs. 
Dombey. 

“ I am going out,” she said, without looking at it. 

“ My dear love,” drawled Mrs. Skewton, “ how very 
odd to send that message without seeing the name ! 
Bring it here, Withers. Dear me, my love ; Mr. 
Carker, too ! that very sensible person ! ” 

“ 1 am going out,” repeated Edith, in so imperious a 
tone, that Withers, going to the door, imperiously in- 
formed the servant who was waiting, “ Mrs. Dombey 
is going out. Get along with you,” and shut it on 
him. 

But the servant came back after a short absence, 
and whispered to Withers again, who once more, and 
not very willingly, presented himself before Mrs. Dom- 
bey. 

“ If you please, ma’am, Mr. Carker sends his re- 
spectful compliments, and begs you would spare him 
one minute, if you could — for business, ma’am, if you 
please.” 

“ Really, my love,” said Mrs. Skewton in her mildest 
manner ; for her daughter’s face was threatening ; u if 
you would allow me to offer a word, I should recom- 
mend ” — 

“ Show him this way,” said Edith. As Withers dis- 


132 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


appeared to execute the command, she added, frowning 
on her mother, “ As he comes at your recommendation, 
let him come to your room.” 

“ May I — shall I go away ? ” asked Florence, hur- 
riedly. 

Edith nodded yes, but on her way to the door Flor- 
ence met the visitor coming in. With the same disa- 
greeable mixture of familiarity and forbearance with 
which he had first addressed her, he addressed her now 
in his softest manner — hoped she was quite well — 
needed not to ask, with such looks to anticipate the an- 
swer — had scarcely had the honor to know her, last 
night, she was so greatly changed — and held the door 
open for her to pass out ; with a secret sense of power 
in her shrinking from him, that all the deference and 
politeness of his manner could not quite conceal. 

He then bowed himself for a moment over Mrs. 
Skewtons condescending hand, and lastly bowed to 
Edith. Coldly returning his salute without looking at 
him, and neither seating herself nor inviting him to be 
seated, she waited for him to speak. 

Entrenched in her pride and power, and with all the 
obduracy of her spirit summoned about her, still her 
old conviction that she and her mother had been known 
by this man in their worst colors, from their first ac- 
quaintance ; that every degradation she had suffered in 
her own eyes was as plain to him as to herself ; that he 
read her life as though it were a vile book, and fluttered 
the leaves before her in slight looks and tones of voice 
which no one else could detect ; weakened and under- 
mined her. Proudly as she opposed herself to him, 
with her commanding face exacting his humility, her 
disdainful lip repulsing him, her bosom angry at his in* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


133 


trusion, and the dark lashes of her eye sullenly veiling 
their light, that no ray of it might shine upon him — 
and submissively as he stood before her, with an en- 
treating injured manner, but with complete submission 
to her will — she knew, in her own soul, that the cases 
were reversed, and that the triumph and superiority were 
his, and that he knew it full well. 

“ I have presumed,” said Mr. Carker, “ to solicit an 
interview, and I have ventured to describe it as being 
one of business, because ” — 

u Perhaps you are charged by Mr. Dombey with 
some message of reproof,” said Edith. “ You possess 
Mr. Dombey’s confidence in such an unusual degree, sir, 
that you would scarcely surprise me if that w T ere your 
business.” 

“ I have no message to the lady who sheds a lustre 
upon his name,” said Mr. Carker. “ But I entreat that 
lady, on my own behalf, to be just to a very humble 
claimant for justice at her hands — a mere dependant 
of Mr. Dombey’s — which is a position of humility ; 
and to reflect upon my perfect helplessness last night, 
and the impossibility of my avoiding the share that was 
forced upon me in a very painful occasion.” 

“ My dearest Edith,” hinted Cleopatra in a low voice, 
as she held her eye-glass aside, “ really very charming 
of Mr. What’s-his-name. And full of heart ! ” 

“ For I do,” said Mr. Carker, appealing to Mrs. Skew- 
ton with a look of grateful deference, — “ I do venture 
to call it a painful occasion, though merely because it 
was so to me, who had the misfortune to be present. 
So slight a difference, as between the principals — be- 
tween those who love each other with disinterested de- 
votion, and would make any sacrifice of self, in such 


134 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a cause — is nothing. As Mrs. Skewton hersell ex- 
pressed, with so much truth and feeling last night, it is 
nothing.” 

Edith could not look at him, but she said after a few 
moments, 

“ And your business, sir ” — 

“ Edith, my pet,” said Mrs. Skewton, “ all this time 
Mr. Carker is standing ! My dear Mr. Carker, take a 
seat, I beg.” 

He offered no reply to the mother, but fixed his eyes 
on the proud daughter, as though he would only be bid- 
den by her, and was resolved to be bidden by her. 
Edith, in spite of herself, sat down, and slightly mo- 
tioned with her hand to him to be seated too. No ac- 
tion could be colder, haughtier, more insolent in its air 
of supremacy and disrespect, but she had struggled 
against even that concession ineffectually, and it was 
wrested from her. That was enough! Mr. Carker sat 
down. 

“ May I be allowed, madam,” said Carker, turning 
his white teeth on Mrs. Skewton like a light — “ a lady 
of your excellent sense and quick feeling will give me 
credit, for good reason, I am sure — to address what I 
have to say, to Mrs. Dombey, and to leave her to im - 
part it to you who are her best and dearest friend — 
next to Mr. Dombey ? ” 

Mrs. Skewton would have retired, but Edith stopped 
her. Edith would have stopped him too, and indignantly 
ordered him to speak openly or not at all, but that he 
said, in a low voice — “ Miss Florence — the young 
lady who has just left the room ” — 

Edith suffered him to proceed. She looked at him 
now. As he bent forward, to be nearer, with the utmost 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


135 


show of delicacy and respect, and with his teeth persua- 
sively arrayed, in a self-depreciating smile, she felt as if 
she could have struck him dead. 

“ Miss Florence’s position,” he began, “ has been an 
unfortunate one. I have a difficulty in alluding to it to 
you, whose attachment to her father is naturally watch- 
ful and jealous of every word that applies to him.” 
Always distinct and soft in speech, no language could 
describe the extent of his distinctness and softness, when 
he said these words, or came to any others of a similar 
import. <l But, as one who is devoted to Mr. Dombey 
in his different way, and whose life is passed in admira- 
tion of Mr. Dombey’s character, may I say, without 
offence to your tenderness as a wife, that Miss Florence 
has unhappily been neglected — by her father. May I 
say by her father ? ” 

Edith replied, “ I know it.” 

“ You know it ! ” said Mr. Carker, with a great ap- 
pearance of relief. “ It removes a mountain from my 
breast. May I hope you know how the neglect origi- 
nated ; in what an amiable phase of Mr. Dombey’s pride 
— character I mean ? ” 

“ You may pass that by, sir,” she returned, “ and 
come the sooner to the end of what you have to say.” 

“ Indeed, I am sensible, madam,” replied Carker, — 
“ trust me, I am deeply sensible, that Mr. Dombey can 
require no justification in anything to you. But, kindly 
judge of my breast by your own, and you will forgive 
my interest in him, if, in its excess, it goes at all 
astray.” 

What a stab to her proud heart, to sit there, face to 
face with him, and have him tendering her false oath 
*t the altar again and again for her acceptance, and 


136 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


pressing it upon her like the dregs of a sickening cup 
she could not own her loathing of, or turn away from ! 
How shame, remorse, and passion raged within her, 
when, upright and majestic in her beauty before him, 
she knew that in her spirit she was down at his feet! 

“ Miss Florence,” said Carker, “ left to the care — 
if one may call it care — of servants and mercenary 
people, in every way her inferiors, necessarily wanted 
some guide and compass in her younger days, and, nat- 
urally, for want of them, has been indiscreet, and has 
in some degree forgotten her station. There was some 
folly about one Walter, a common lad, who is fortu- 
nately dead now : and some very undesirable associa- 
tion, I regret to say, with certain coasting sailors, of 
anything but good repute, and a runaway old bank- 
rupt.” 

“I have heard the circumstances, sir,” said Edith, 
flashing her disdainful glance upon him, “ and I know 
that you pervert them. You may not know it, I hope 
so.” 

w Pardon me,” said Mr. Carker, “ I believe that no- 
body knows them so well as I. Your generous and 
ardent nature, madam — the same nature which is so 
nobly imperative in vindication of your beloved and 
honored husband, and which has blessed him as even 
his merits deserve — I must respect, defer to, bow be- 
fore. But, as regards the circumstances, which is indeed 
the business I presumed to solicit your attention to, I 
can have no doubt, since, in the execution of my trust 
as Mr. Dombey’s confidential — I presume to say — 
friend, I have fully ascertained them. In my execution 
of that trust ; in my deep concern, which you can so 
well understand, for everything relating to him, inten- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


137 


eified, if you will, (for I fear I labor under your dis- 
pleasure), by the lower motive of desire to prove my 
diligence, and make myself the more acceptable ; I have 
long pursued these circumstances by myself and trust- 
worthy instruments, and have innumerable and most 
minute proofs.” 

She raised her eyes no higher than his mouth, but 
she saw the means of mischief vaunted in every tooth it 
contained. 

“Pardon me, madam,” he continued, “if, in my per- 
plexity, I presume to take counsel with you, and to con- 
sult your pleasure. I think I have observed that you 
are greatly interested in Miss Florence ? ” 

What was there in her he had not observed, and did 
not know ? Humbled and yet maddened by the thought, 
in every new presentment of it, however faint, she 
pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip to force com- 
posure on it, and distantly inclined her head in reply. 

“ This interest, madam — so touching an evidence of 
everything associated with Mr. Dombey being dear to 
you — induces me to pause before I make him acquainted 
with these circumstances, which, as yet, lie does not 
know. It so far shakes me, if I may make the confes- 
sion, in my allegiance, that on the intimation of the least 
desire to that effect from you, I would suppress them.” 

Edith raised her head quickly, and starting back, bent 
her dark glance upon him. He met it with his blandest 
and most deferential smile, and went on. 

“ You say that as I describe them, they are perverted. 
1 fear not — I fear not : but let us assume that they are. 
The uneasiness I have for some time felt on the subject, 
arises in this : that the mere circumstance of such asso- 
ciation often repeated, on the part of Miss Florence, 


138 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


however innocently and confidingly, would be conclusive 
with Mr. Dombey, already predisposed against her, and 
would lead him to take some step (I know he has occa- 
sionally contemplated it) of separation and alienation of 
her from his home. Madam, bear with me, and remem- 
ber my intercourse with Mr. Dombey, and my knowledge 
of him, and my reverence for him, almost from child- 
hood, when I say that if he has a fault, it is a lofty stub- 
bornness, rooted in that noble pride and sense of power 
which belong to him, and which we must all defer to ; 
which is not assailable like the obstinacy of other char- 
acters ; and which grows upon itself from day to day, 
and year to year.” 

She bent her glance upon him still ; but, look as stead- 
fast as she would, her haughty nostrils dilated, and her 
breath came somewhat deeper, and her lip would slightly 
curl as he described that in his patron to which they must 
all bow down. He saw it ; and though his expression 
did not change, she knew he saw it. 

“ Even so slight an incident as last night’s,” he said, 
“ if I might refer to it once more, would serve to illus- 
trate my meaning, better than a greater one. Dombey 
and Son know neither time, nor place, nor season, but 
bear them all down. But I rejoice in its occurrence, 
for it has opened the way for me to approach Mrs. Dom- 
bey with this subject to-day, even if it has entailed upon 
me the penalty of her temporary displeasure. Madam, 
in the midst of my uneasiness and apprehension on this 
subject, I was summoned by Mr. Dombey to Leaming- 
ton. There I saw you. There I could not help know- 
»ng what relation you would shortly occupy towards him 
— to his enduring happiness and yours. There I re- 
solved to await the time of your establishment at home 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


139 


here, and to do as I have now done. I have, at heart, 
no fear that I shall be wanting in my duty to Mr. Dom- 
bey, if I bury what I know in your breast ; for where 
there is but one heart and mind between two persons — 
as in such a marriage — one almost represents the other. 
I can acquit my conscience therefore, almost equally, by 
confidence, on such a theme, in you or him. For the 
reasons I have mentioned, I would select you. May I 
aspire to the distinction of believing that my confidence 
is accepted, and that I am relieved from my responsibil- 
ity ? ” 

He long remembered the look she gave him — who 
could see it, and forget it ? — and the struggle that en- 
sued within her. At last she said : 

“ I accept it, sir. You will please to consider this 
matter at an end, and that it goes no farther.” 

He bowed low, and rose. She rose too, and he took 
leave with all humility. But Withers, meeting him on 
the stairs, stood amazed at the beauty of his teeth, and 
at his brilliant smile ; and as he rode away upon his 
white-legged horse, the people took him for a dentist, 
such was the dazzling show he made. The people took 
her , when she rode out in her carriage presently, for a 
great lady, as happy as she was rich and fine. But they 
had not seen her, just before, in her own room with no 
one by ; and they had not heard her utterance of the 
three words, “ Oh Florence, Florence ! ” 

Mrs. Skewton, reposing on her sofa, and sipping her 
chocolate, had heard nothing but the low word business, 
for which she had a mortal aversion, insomuch that she 
had long banished it from her vocabulary, and had gone 
nigh, in a charming manner and with an immense 
amount of heart, to say nothing of soul, to ruin divers 


r40 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


milliners and others in consequence. Therefore, Mrs. 
Skewton asked no questions, and showed no curiosity. 
Indeed, the peach-velvet bonnet gave her sufficient occu- 
pation out of doors ; for being perched on the back of 
her head, and the day being rather windy, it was frantic 
to escape from Mrs. Skewton’s company, and would be 
coaxed into no sort of compromise. When the carriage 
was closed, and the wind shut out, the palsy played among 
the artificial roses again like an alms-house full of super- 
annuated zephyrs ; and altogether Mrs. Skewton had 
enough to do, and got on but indifferently. 

She got on no better towards night ; for when Mrs. 
Dombey in her dressing-room, had been dressed and 
waiting for her half an hour, and Mr. Dombey, in the 
drawing-room, had paraded himself into a state of solemn 
fretfulness (they were all three going out to dinner), 
Flowers the maid appeared with a pale face to Mrs. 
Dombey saying : 

“ If you please, ma’am, I beg your pardon, but I can’t 
do nothing with missis ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Edith. 

“Well, ma’am,” replied the frightened maid, “ I 
hardly know. She’s making faces ! ” 

Edith hurried with her to her mother’s room. Cleo- 
patra was arrayed in full dress, with the diamonds, short- 
sleeves, rouge, curls, teeth, and other juvenility all com- 
plete ; but Paralysis was not to be deceived, had known 
her for the object of its errand, and had struck her at 
her glass, where she lay like a horrible doll that had 
tumbled down. 

They took her to pieces in very shame, and put the 
little of her that was real on a bed. Doctors were sent 
for, and soon came. Powerful remedies were resorted 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


141 


to ; opinions given that she would rally from this shock, 
but would not survive another ; and there she lay 
speechless, and staring at the ceiling, for days: some- 
times making inarticulate sounds in answer to such 
questions as did she know who were present, and the 
like : sometimes giving no reply either by sign or ges- 
ture, or in her unwinking eyes. 

At length she began to recover consciousness, and in 
some degree the power of motion, though not yet of 
speech. One day the use of her right hand returned; 
and showing it to her maid who was in attendance on 
her, and appearing very uneasy in her mind, she made 
signs for a pencil and some paper. This the maid im- 
mediately provided, thinking she was going to make a 
will, or write some last request ; and Mrs. Dombey 
being from home, the maid awaited the result with 
solemn feelings. 

After much painful scrawling and erasing, and putting 
in of wrong characters, which seemed to tumble out of 
the pencil of their own accord, the old woman produced 
this document : 

“ Rose-colored curtains.” 

The maid being perfectly transfixed, and with tolera- 
ble reason, Cleopatra amended the manuscript by adding 
two words more, when it stood thus : 

u Rose-colored curtains for doctors.” 

The maid now perceived remotely that she wished 
these articles to be provided for the better presentation 
of her complexion to the faculty ; and as those in the 
house who knew her best, had no doubt of the correct- 
ness of this opinion) which she was soon able to estab- 
lish for herself, the rose-colored curtains were added to 
her bed 4 ) and she mended with increased rapidity from 


142 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that hour. She was soon able to sit up, in curls and a 
laced cap and night-gown, and to have a little artificial 
bloom dropped into the hollow caverns of her cheeks. 

It was a tremendous sight to see this old woman in 
her finery leering and mincing at Death, and playing off 
her youthful tricks upon him as if he had been the 
major; but an alteration in her mind that ensued on the 
paralytic stroke was fraught with as much matter for 
reflection, and was quite as ghastly. 

Whether the weakening of her intellect made her 
more cunning and false than before, or whether it con- 
fused her between what she had assumed to be and what 
she really had been, or whether it had awakened any 
glimmering of remorse, which could neither struggle into 
light nor get back into total darkness, or whether, in the 
jumble of her faculties, a combination of these effects 
had been shaken up, which is perhaps the more likely 
supposition, the result was this : — That she became 
hugely exact in respect of Edith’s affection and gratitude 
and attention to her ; highly laudatory of herself as a 
most inestimable parent ; and very jealous of having any 
rival in Edith’s regard. Further, in place of remem- 
bering that compact made between them for an avoid- 
ance of the subject, she constantly alluded to her daugh- 
ter’s marriage as a proof of her being an incomparable 
mother ; and all this, with the weakness and peevishness 
of such a state, always serving for a sarcastic commen- 
lary on her levity and youthfulness. 
k “ Where is Mrs. Dombey ? ” she would say to her 
maid. 

“ Gone out, ma’am.” 

“ Gone out ! Does she go out to shun her mama, 
Flowers ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


143 


“ La bless you, no ma’am. Mrs. Doinbey has only 
gone out for a ride with Miss Florence.” 

“ Miss Florence. Who’s Miss Florence ? Don’t tell 
me about Miss Florence. What’s Miss Florence to her, 
compared to me ? ” 

The opposite display of the diamonds, or the peach- 
velvet bonnet (she sat in the bonnet to receive visitors, 
weeks before she could stir out of doors), or the dressing 
of her up in some gaud or other, usually stopped the 
tears that began to flow hereabouts ; and she would re- 
main in a complacent state until Edith came to see her ; 
when, at a glance of the proud face, she would relapse 
again. 

“ Well, I am sure, Edith ! ” she would cry, shaking 
her head. 

* What is the matter, mother ? ” 

“ Matter ! I really don’t know what is the matter. 
The world is coming to such an artificial and ungrateful 
state, that I begin to think there’s no Heart — or any- 
thing of that sort — left in it, positively. Withers is 
more a child to me than you are. He attends to me 
much more than my own daughter. I almost wish I 
didn’t look so young — and all that kind of thing — and 
then perhaps I should be more considered.” 

“ What would you have, mother ? ” 

“ Oh, a great deal, Edith,” impatiently. 

“ Is there anything you want that you have not? It 
is your own fault if there be.” 

“ My own fault ! ” beginning to whimper. “ The par- 
ent I have been to you, Edith : making you a companion 
from your cradle ! And when you neglect me, and have 
no more natural affection for me than if I was a stran- 
ger — not a twentieth part of the affection that you 


144 


DOMBEY AND SON; 


have fo * Florence — but I am only your mother and 
should corrupt her in a day! — you reproach me with 
its being my own fault.” 

“ Mother, mother, I reproach you with nothing. Why 
will you always dwell on this ? ” 

“ Isn’t it natural that I should dwell on this, when I 
am all affection and sensitiveness, and am wounded in 
the cruellest way, whenever you look at me ? ” 

“I do not mean to wound you, mother. Have yoj 
no remembrance of what has been said between us ? Let 
the Past rest.” 

“ Yes, rest ! And let gratitude to me, rest ; and let 
affection for me, rest ; and let me rest in my out-of-the- 
way room, with no society and no attention, while you 
find new relations to make much of, who have no earthly 
claim upon you ! Good gracious, Edith, do you know 
what an elegant establishment you are at the head of?” 

“ Yes. Hush!” 

“ And that gentlemanly creature, Dombey ? do you 
know that you are married to him, Edith, and that you 
have a settlement, and a position, and a carriage, and I 
don’t know what ? ” 

“ Indeed I know it, mother ; well.” 

“As you would have had with that delightful, good 
soul — what did they call him ? — Granger — if he 
hadn’t died. And who have you to thank for all this, 
Edith ? ” 

“ You, mother ; you.” 

“ Then put your arms round my neck, and kiss me ; 
and show me, Edith, that you know there never was a 
better mama than I have been to you. And don’t let 
me become a perfect fright with teasing and wearing 
myself at your ingratitude, or when I’m out again in 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


145 


Bociety, no soul will know me, not even that hateful ani- 
mal, the major.” 

But, sometimes, when Edith went nearer to her, and 
bending down her stately head, put her cold cheek to 
hers, the mother would draw back as if she were afraid 
of her, and would fall into a fit of trembling, and cry 
out that there was a wandering in her wits. And some- 
times she would entreat her, with humility, to sit down 
on the chair beside her bed, and would look at her (as 
she sat there brooding) with a face that even the rose- 
colored curtains could not make otherwise than seared 
and wild. 

The rose-colored curtains blushed, in course of time, 
on Cleopatra’s bodily recovery, and on her dress — more 
juvenile than ever, to repair the ravages of illness — 
and on the rouge, and on the teeth, and on the curls, 
and on the diamonds, and the short sleeves, and the 
whole wardrobe of the doll that had tumbled down be- 
fore the mirror. They blushed too, now and then, upon 
an indistinctness in her speech, which she turned off with 
a girlish giggle, and, on an occasional failing in her 
memory, that had no rule in it, but came and went fan- 
tastically ; as if in mockery of her fantastic self. 

But they never blushed upon a change in the new 
manner of her thought and speech towards her daughter. 
And though that daughter often came within their in- 
fluence, they never blushed upon her loveliness irradi- 
a ed by a smile, or softened by the light of filial love, in 
its stern beauty. 


VOL. III. 


10 


146 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

MISS TOX IMPROVES AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 

The forlorn Miss Tox, abandoned by hei friend Lou* 
isa Chick, and bereft of Mr. Dombey’s countenance — 
for no delicate pair of wedding-cards, united by a silver 
thread, graced the chimney-glass in Princess’s-place, or 
the harpsichord, or any of those little posts of display 
which Lucretia reserved for holiday occupation — be- 
came depressed in her spirits, and suffered much from 
melancholy. For a time the Bird Waltz was unheard 
in Princess’s-place, the plants were neglected, and dust 
collected on the miniature of Miss Tox’s ancestor with 
the powdered head and pigtail. 

Miss Tox, however, was not of an age or of a dis- 
position long to abandon herself to unavailing regrets. 
Only two notes of the harpsichord were dumb from dis- 
use when the Bird Waltz again warbled and trilled in 
the crooked drawing-room ; only one slip of geranium 
fell a victim to imperfect nursing, before she was gar- 
dening at her green baskets again, regularly every morn- 
ing ; the powdered-headed ancestor had not been under 
a cloud for more than six weeks, when Miss Tox 
breathed on his benignant visage, and polished him up 
with a piece of wash-leather. 

Still, Miss Tox was lonely, and at a loss. Her attach- 
ments, however ludicrously shown, were real and strong; 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


147 


and she was, as she expressed it, “ deeply hurt by the 
unmerited contumely she had met with from Louisa.” 
But there was no such thing as anger in Miss Tox’s 
composition. If she had ambled on through life, in her 
soft-spoken way, without any opinions, she had, at least, 
got so far without any harsh passions. The mere sight 
of Louisa Chick in the street one day, at a considerable 
distance, so overpowered her milky nature, that she was 
fain to seek immediate refuge in a pastry-cook’s, and 
there, in a musty little back-room usually devoted to 
the consumption of soups, and pervaded by an ox- 
tail atmosphere, relieve her feelings by weeping plenti- 
fully. 

Against Mr. Dombey Miss Tox hardly felt that she 
had any reason of complaint. Her sense of that gen- 
tleman’s magnificence was such, that once removed from 
him, she felt as if her distance always had been im- 
measurable, and as if he had greatly condescended in 
tolerating her at all. No wife could be too handsome 
or too stately for him, according to Miss Tox’s sincere 
opinion. It was perfectly natural that in looking for one, 
he should look high. Miss Tox with tears laid down this 
proposition, and fully admitted it twenty times a day. 
She never recalled the lofty manner in which Mr. Dom- 
bey had made her subservient to his convenience and 
caprices, and had graciously permitted her to be one of 
the nurses of his little son. She only thought, in her 
own words, “ that she had passed a great many happy 
hours in that house, which she must ever remember with 
gratification, and that she could never cease to regard 
Mr. Dombey as one of the most impressive and dig- 
nified of men.” 

Cut off, however, from the implacable Louisa, and 


148 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


being shy of the major (whom she viewed with some 
distrust now), Miss Tox found it very irksome to know 
nothing of what was going on in Mr. Dombey’s establish- 
ment. And as she really had got into the habit of con- 
sidering Dombey and Son as the pivot on which the 
world in general turned, she resolved, rather than be 
ignorant of intelligence which so strongly interested her, 
to cultivate her old acquaintance, Mrs. Richards, who she 
knew, since her last memorable appearance before Mr. 
Dombey, was in the habit of sometimes holding commu- 
nication with his servants. Perhaps Miss Tox in seek- 
ing out the Toodle family, had the tender motive hid- 
den in her breast of having somebody to whom she could 
talk about Mr. Dombey, no matter how humble that 
somebody might be. 

At all events, towards the Toodle habitation Miss Tox 
directed her steps one evening, what time Mr. Toodle, 
cindery and swart, was refreshing himself with tea, in 
the bosom of his family. Mr. Toodle had only three 
stages of existence. He was either taking refreshment 
in the bosom just mentioned, or he was tearing through 
the country at from twenty-five to fifty miles an hour, 
or he was sleeping after his fatigues. He was always 
in a whirlwind or a calm, and a peaceable contented 
easy-going man Mr. Toodle was in either state, who 
seemed to have made over all his own inheritance of 
fuming and fretting to the engines with which he was 
connected, which panted, and gasped, and chafed, and 
wore themselves out in a most unsparing manner, while 
Mr. Toodle led a mild and equable life. 

“ Polly, my gal,” said Mr. Toodle, with a young Toodle 
on each knee, and two more making tea for him, and 
plenty more scattered about — Mr. Toodle was neve* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


149 


out of children, but always kept a good supply on hand 
— “ You a’n’t seen our Biler lately, have you ? ” 

u No,” replied Polly, “ but he’s almost certain to 
look in to-night. It’s his right evening, and he’s very 
regular.” 

“ I suppose,” said Mr. Toodle, relishing his meal in- 
finitely, “ as our Biler is a-doin’ now about as well as a 
boy can do, eh, Polly ? ” 

“ Oh ! he’s a-doing beautiful ! ” responded Polly. 

“ He a’n’t got to be at all secret-like — has he, Pol- 
ly ? ” inquired Mr. Toodle. 

“ No ! ” said Mrs. Toodle, plumply. 

“ I’m glad he a’n’t got to be at all secret-like, Polly,” 
observed Mr. Toodle in his slow and measured way, and 
shovelling in his bread and butter with a clasp-knife, as 
if he were stoking himself, “ because that don’t look 
well ; do it, Polly ? ” 

“Why, of course it don’t, father. How can you 
ask ! ” 

“ You see, my boys and gals,” said Mr. Toodle, look- 
ing round upon his family, “ wotever you’re up to in a 
honest way, it’s my opinion as you can’t do better than 
be open. If you find yourselves in cuttings or in tun- 
nels, don’t you play no secret games. Keep your whis- 
tles going, and let’s know where you are.” 

The rising Toodles set up a shrill murmur, expressive 
of their resolution to profit by the paternal advice. 

“ But what makes you say this along of Rob, father?” 
asked his wife, anxiously. 

“ Polly, old ’ooman,” said Mr. Toodle, “ I don’t know 
as I said it partickler along o’ Rob, I’m sure. I starts 
light with Rob only ; I comes to a branch ; I takes on 
what I finds there; and a whole train of ideas gets 


*50 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


coupled on to him, afore I knows where I am, or where 
they comes from. What a Junction a man’s thoughts 
is,” said Mr. Toodle, “ to-be-sure ! ” 

This profound reflection Mr. Toodle washed down 
with a pint mug of tea, and proceeded to solidify with 
a great weight of bread and butter ; charging his young 
daughters meanwhile, to keep plenty of hot water in 
the pot, as he was uncommon dry, and should take the 
indefinite quantity of “ a sight of mugs,” before his thirst 
was appeased. 

In satisfying himself, however, Mr. Toodle was not 
regardless of the younger branches about him, who, al- 
though they had made their own evening repast, were 
on the look-out for irregular morsels, as possessing a 
relish. These he distributed now and then to the ex- 
pectant circle, by bolding out great w r edges of bread and 
butter, to be bitten at by the family in lawful succession, 
and by serving out small doses of tea in like manner 
with a spoon ; which snacks had such a relish in the 
mouths of these young Toodles, that, after partaking of 
the same, they performed private dances of ecstasy 
among themselves, and stood on one leg apiece, and 
hopped, and indulged in other saltatory tokens of glad- 
ness. These vents for their excitement found, they grad- 
ually closed about Mr. Toodle again, and eyed him hard 
as he got through more bread and butter and tea : affect- 
ing, however, to have no further expectations of their 
own in reference to those viands, but to be conversing on 
foreign subjects, and whispering confidentially. 

Mr. Toodle, in the midst of this family group, and 
setting an awful example to his children in the way of 
appetite, was conveying the two young Toodles on his 
knees to Birmingham by special engine, and was con* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


151 


ttemplating the rest over a barrier of bread and batter, 
when Rob the Grinder, in his sou’wester hat and mourn- 
ing slops, presented himself, and was received with a 
general rush of brothers and sisters. 

“Well, mother!” said Rob, dutifully kissing her; 
“ how are you, mother ? ” 

“ There’s my boy ! ” cried Polly, giving him a hug, 
and a pat on the back. “Secret! Bless you, father, 
not he ! ” 

This was intended for Mr. Toodle’s private edification, 
but Rob the Grinder, whose withers were not unwrung, 
caught the words as they were spoken. 

“ What ! father’s been a-saying something more again 
me, has he?” cried the injured innocent. “Oh, what 
a hard thing it is that when a cove has once gone a 
little wrong, a cove’s own father should be always a- 
throwing it in his face behind his back ! It’s enough,” 
cried Rob, resorting to his coat-cuff in anguish of spirit, 
“ to make a cove go and do something out of spite ! ” 

“ My poor boy ! ” cried Polly, “ father didn’t mean 
anything.” 

“ If father didn’t mean anything,” blubbered the in- 
jured Grinder, “ why did he go and say anything, 
mother? Nobody thinks half so bad of me as my own 
father does. What a unnatural thing ! I wish some- 
body’d take and chop my head off. Father wouldn’t 
mind doing it, I believe, and I’d much rather he did 
that than t’other.” 

At these desperate words all the young Toodles 
shrieked ; a pathetic effect, which the Grinder improved 
by ironically adjuring them not to cry for him, for they 
ought to hate him, they ought, if they was good boys 
*nd girls ; and this so touched the youngest Toodle but 


152 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


one, who was easily moved, that it touched him not only 
in his spirit but in his wind too ; making him so purple 
that Mr. Toodle in consternation carried him out to the 
water-butt, and would have put him under the tap, but 
for his being recovered by the sight of that instru- 
ment. 

Matters having reached this point, Mr. Toodle ex- 
plained, and the virtuous feelings of his son being there- 
by calmed, they shook hands, and harmony reigned 
again. 

44 Will you do as I do, Biler, my boy ? ” inquired his 
father, returning to his tea with new strength. 

“No, thank’ee, father. Master and I had tea to- 
gether.” 

“ And how is master, Rob ? ” said Polly. 

“ Well, I don’t know, mother ; not much to boast on. 
There a’n’t no bis’ness done, you see. He don’t know 
anything about it, the cap’en don’t. There was a man 
come into the shop this very day, and says 4 1 want a so- 
and-so,’ he says — some hard name or another. 4 A 
which ? ’ says the cap’en. 4 A so-and-so,’ says the man. 
4 Brother,’ says the cap’en, 4 will you take a observation 
round the shop ?’ 4 Well,’ says the man, 4 I’ve done it.’ 

4 Do you see wot you want ? ’ says the cap’en. 4 No, 
I don’t,’ says the man. 4 Do you know it wen you do 
see it ? ’ says the cap’en. 4 No, I don’t,’ says the man. 
4 Why, then I tell you wot, my lad,’ says the cap’en, 
4 you’d better go back and ask wot it’s like, outside, for 
no more don’t I ! ’” 

44 That a’n’t the way to make money, though, is it ? ” 
said Polly. 

44 Money, mother ! He’ll never make money. He has 
such ways as I never see. He a’n’t a bad master though, 


DOMBEY AND SON 


155 


I’ll say that for him. But that a’n’t much to me, for I 
don’t think I stall stop with him long.” 

“ Not stop in your place, Rob ! ” cried his mother ; 
while Mr. Toodle opened his eyes. 

“ Not in that place, p’raps,” returned the Grinder, 
with a wink. “ I shouldn’t wonder — friends at court 
you know — but never you mind, mother, just now ; 
I'm all right, that’s all.” 

The indisputable proof afforded in these hints, and in 
the Grinder’s mysterious manner, of his not being sub- 
ject to that failing which Mr. Toodle had, by implication, 
attributed to him, might have led to a renewal of his 
wrongs, and of the sensation in the family, but for the 
opportune arrival of another visitor, who to Polly’s great 
surprise, appeared at the door, smiling patronage and 
friendship on all there. 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Richards ? ” said Miss Tox. 
“ I have come to see you. May I come in ? ” 

The cheery face of Mrs. Richards shone with a hos- 
pitable reply, and Miss Tox, accepting the proffered 
chair, and gracefully recognizing Mr. Toodle on her 
way to it, untied her bonnet-strings, and said that in the 
first place she must beg the dear children, one and all, 
to come and kiss her. 

The ill-starred youngest Toodle but one, who would 
appear, from the frequency of his domestic troubles, to 
have been born under an unlucky planet, was prevented 
from performing his part in this general salutation by 
having fixed the sou’wester hat (with which he had been 
previously trifling) deep on his head, hind side before, 
and being unabU to get it off again; which accident 
presenting to his terrified imagination a dismal picture 
of his passing the rest of his days in darkness, and in 


154 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


hopeless seclusion from his friends and family, caused 
him to struggle with great violence, and to utter suffo- 
cating cries. Being released, his face was discovered 
to be very hot, and red, and damp ; and Miss Tox took 
him on her lap, much exhausted. 

“ You have almost forgotten me, sir, I dare say,” said 
Miss Tox to Mr. Toodle. 

“ No, ma’am, no,” said Toodle. u But we’ve all on ua 
got a little older since then.” 

“ And how do you find yourself, sir ? ” inquired Mien 
Tox, blandly. 

“ Hearty, ma’am, thank’ee,” replied Toodle. “ How 
do you find yourself, ma’am. Do the rheumaticks keep 
off pretty well, ma’am ? We must all expect to grow 
into ’em, as we gets on.” 

“Thank you,” said Miss Tox. “I have not fel: any 
inconvenience from that disorder yet.” 

“ You’re wery fortunate, ma’am,” returned Mr. Too- 
dle. “ Many people at your time of life, ma’am, is 
martyrs to it. There was my mother ” But catch- 

ing his wife’s eye here, Mr. Toodle judiciously buried 
the rest in another mug of tea. 

“ You never mean to say, Mrs. Richards,” cried Miss 
Tox, looking at Rob, “ that that is your ” — 

“ Eldest, ma’am,” said Polly. “ Yes, indeed, it is. 
That’s the little fellow, ma’am, that was the innocent 
cause of so much.” 

“ This here, ma’am,” said Toodle, “ is him with the 
short legs — and they was,” said Mr. Toodle, with a 
touch of poetry in his tone, “ unusual short for leath- 
ers — as Mr. Dombey made a Grinder on.” 

The recollection almost overpowered Miss Tox. The 
subject of it had a peculiar interest for her directly 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


155 


She asked him to shake hands, and congratulated his 
mother on his frank, ingenuous face. Rob, overhearing 
her, called up a look, to justify the eulogium, but it was 
hardly the right look. 

“ And now, Mrs. Richards,” said Miss Tox, — “ and 
you too, sir,” addressing Toodle — “ I’ll tell you, plainly 
and truly, what I have come here for. You may be 
aware, Mrs. Richards — and, possibly you may be aware 
too, sir — that a little distance has interposed itself be- 
tween me and some of my friends, and that where I used 
to visit a good deal, I do not visit now.” 

Polly, who, with a woman’s tact, understood this at 
once, expressed as much in a little look. Mr. Toodle 
who had not the faintest idea of what Miss Tox was 
talking about, expressed that also, in a stare. 

“ Of course,” said Miss Tox, “ how our little coolness 
has arisen is of no moment, and does not require to be 
discussed. It is sufficient for me to say, that I have the 
greatest possible respect for, and interest in, Mr. Dom- 
bey ; ” Miss Tox’s voice faltered ; “ and everything that 
relates to him.” 

Mr. Toodle, enlightened, shook his head, and said he 
had heerd it said, and, for his own part, he did think, as 
Mr. Dombey was a difficult subject. 

“ Pray don’t say so, sir, if you please,” returned Miss 
Tox. “ Let me entreat you not to say so, sir, either now, 
or at any future time. Such observations cannot but be 
very painful to me, and to a gentleman, whose mind is 
constituted as I am quite sure yours is, can afford no 
permanent satisfaction.” 

Mr. Toodle, who had not entertained the least doubt 
of offering a remark that would be received with acqui- 
escence, was greatly confounded. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


lo 6 


“ All that I wish to say, Mrs. Richards,” resumed Miss 
Tox, — “ and I address myself to you too, sir, — is this. 
That any intelligence of the proceedings of the family, 
of the welfare of the family, of the health of the family, 
that reaches you, will be always most acceptable to me. 
That I shall be always very glad to chat with Mrs. 
Richards about the family, and about old times. And 
as Mrs. Richards and I never had the least indifference 
(though I could wish now that we had been better ac- 
quainted, but I have no one but myself to blame for 
that), I hope she will not object to our being very good 
friends now, and to my coming backwards and forwards 
here, when I like, without being a stranger. Now, I 
really hope Mrs. Richards,” said Miss Tox, earnestly, 
“ that you will take this, as I mean it, like a good-hu- 
mored creature as you always were.” 

Polly was gratified, and showed it. Mr. Toodle didn’t 
know whether he was gratified or not, and preserved a 
stolid calmness. 

“ You see, Mrs. Richards,” said Miss Tox — “ and I 
hope you see too, sir — there are many little ways in 
which I can be slightly useful to you, if you will make 
no stranger of me ; and in which I shall be delighted 
to be so. For instance, I can teach your children some- 
thing. I shall bring a few little books if you’ll allow 
me, and some work, and of an evening now and then, 
they’ll learn — dear me, they’ll learn a great deal, I 
trust, and be a credit to their teacher.” 

Mr. Toodle, who had a great respect for learning, 
jerked his head approvingly at his wife, and moistened 
his hands with dawning satisfaction. 

“ Then, not being a stranger, I shall be in nobody’s 
way,” said Miss Tox, “ and everything will go on just 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


157 


as if I were not here. Mrs. Richards will do her mend- 
ing, or her ironing, or her nursing, whatever it is, with- 
out minding me : and you’ll smoke your pipe, too, if 
you’re so disposed, sir, won’t you ? ” 

“ Thank’ee mum,” said Mr. Toodle. a Yes ; I’ll take 
my bit of backer.” 

“ Very good of you to say so, sir,” rejoined Miss Tox, 
“ and I really do assure you now, unfeign edly, that it 
will be a great comfort to me, and that whatever good 
I may be fortunate enough to do the children, you will 
more than pay back to me, if you’ll enter into this little 
bargain comfortably, and easily, and good-naturedly, 
without another word about it.” 

The bargain was ratified on the spot ; and Miss Tox 
found herself so much at home already, that without 
delay she instituted a preliminary examination of the 
children all round — which Mr. Toodle much admired 
— and booked their ages, names, and acquirements, on 
a piece of paper. This ceremony, and a little attendant 
gossip, prolonged the time until after their usual hour 
of going to bed, and detained Miss Tox at the Toodle 
fireside until it was too late for her to walk home alone. 
The gallant Grinder, however, being still there, politely 
offered to attend her to her own door ; and as it was 
something to Miss Tox, to be seen home by a youth 
whom Mr. Dombey had first inducted into those manly 
garments which are rarely mentioned by name, she very 
readily accepted the proposal. 

After shaking hands with Mr. Toodle and Polly, and 
kissing all the children, Miss Tox left the house, there- 
fore, with unlimited popularity, and carrying away with 
her so light a heart, that it might have given Mrs. Chick 
offence if that good lady could have weighed it. 


158 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Rob the Grinder, in his modesty, would have walked 
behind, but Miss Tox desired him to keep beside her, 
tor conversational purposes; and, as she afterwards ex- 
pressed it to his mother, “ drew him out,” upon the 
road. 

He drew out so bright, and clear, and shining, that 
Miss Tox was charmed with him. The more Miss Tox 
drew him out, the finer he came — like wire. There 
never was a better or more promising youth — a more 
affectionate, steady, prudent, sober, honest, meek, candid 
young man — than Rob drew out that night. 

-* I am quite glad,” said Miss Tox, arrived at her own 
door, “ to know you. I hope you’ll consider me your 
friend, and that you’ll come and see me as often as you 
like. Do you keep a money-box ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” returned Rob ; “ I’m saving up against 
I’ve got enough to put in the Bank, ma’am.” 

“Very laudable indeed,” said Miss Tox. “ I’m glad 
to hear it. Put this half-crown into it, if you please.” 

“ Oh thank you, ma’am,” replied Rob, “ but really I 
couldn’t think of depriving you.” 

“ I commend your independent spirit,” said Miss Tox, 
“but it’s no deprivation, I assure you. I shall be of- 
fended if you don’t take it, as a mark of my good-will. 
Good-night, Robin.” 

“ Good-night, ma’am,” said Rob, “ and thank you ! ” 

Who ran sniggering off to get change, and tossed it 
away with a pieman. But they never taught honor 
at the Grinders’ School, where the system that pre- 
vailed was particularly strong in the engendering of 
hypocrisy Insomuch, that many of the friends and 
masters of past Grinders said, if this were what came 
of education for the common people, let us have none. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


159 


Some more rational said, let us have a better one. But 
the governing powers of the Grinders* Company were 
always ready for them, by picking out a few boys who 
had turned out well, in spite of the system, and roundly 
asserting that they could have only turned out well be- 
cause of it. Which settled the business of those ob 
jectors out of hand, and established the glory of the 
Grinders’ Institution. 


160 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN EDWARD CUTTLE, 
MARINER. 

Time, sure of foot and strong of will, had so pressed 
onward, that the year enjoined by the old Instrument- 
maker, as the term during which his friend should refrain 
from opening the sealed packet accompanying the letter 
he had left for him, was now nearly expired, and Cap- 
tain Cuttle began to look at it of an evening, with feel- 
ings of mystery and uneasiness. 

The captain, in his honor, would as soon have thought 
of opening the parcel one hour before the expiration of 
the term, as he would have thought of opening himself, 
to study his own anatomy. He merely brought it out, 
at a certain stage of his first evening pipe, laid it on the 
table, and sat gazing at the outside of it, through the 
smoke, in silent gravity, for two or three hours at a spell. 
Sometimes, when he had contemplated it thus for a pretty 
long while, the captain would hitch his chair, by degrees, 
farther and farther off, as if to get beyond the range 
of its fascination ; but if this were his design, he never 
succeeded: for even when he was brought up by the 
parlor wall, the packet still attracted him ; or if his eyes, 
in thoughtful wandering roved to the ceiling or the fire, 
its image immediately followed, and posted itself con- 
spicuously among the coals, or took up an advantageous 
position on the whitewash. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


161 


In respect of Heart’s Delight, the captain’s parental 
regard and admiration knew no change. But since his 
last interview with Mr. Carker, Captain Cuttle had come 
to entertain doubts whether his former intervention in 
behalf of that young lady and his dear boy Wal’r, had 
proved altogether so favorable as he could have wished, 
and as he at the time believed. The captain was 
troubled with a serious misgiving that he had done more 
harm than good, in short ; and in his remorse and mod- 
esty he made the best atonement he could think of, by 
putting himself out of the way of doing any harm to any 
one, and, as it were, throwing himself overboard for a 
dangerous person. 

Self-buried, therefore, among the instruments, the cap- 
tain never went near Mr. Dombey’s house, or reported 
himself in any way to Florence or Miss Nipper. He 
even severed himself from Mr. Perch, on the occasion 
of his next visit, by dryly informing that gentleman, that 
he thanked him for his company, but had cut himself 
adrift from all such acquaintance, as he didn’t know what 
magazine he mightn’t blow up, without meaning of it. 
In this self-imposed retirement, the captain passed whole 
days and weeks without interchanging a word with any 
one but Rob the Grinder, whom he esteemed as a pat- 
tern of disinterested attachment and fidelity. In this 
retirement, the captain, gazing at the packet of an even- 
ing, would sit smoking, and thinking of Florence and 
poor Walter, until they both seemed to his homely fancy 
to be dead, and to have passed away into eternal youth, 
the beautiful and innocent children of his first remem 
brance. 

The captain did not, however, in his musings, neglect 
his own improvement, or the mental culture of Rob the 
VOL. III. 11 


162 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Grinder. That young man was generally required to 
read out of some book to the captain, for one hour every 
evening ; and as the captain implicitly believed that all 
books were true, he accumulated, by this means, many 
remarkable facts. On Sunday nights, the captain always 
read for himself, before going to bed, a certain Divine 
Sermon once delivered on a Mount ; and although he 
was accustomed to quote the text, without book, after his 
own manner, he appeared to read it with as reverent an 
understanding of its heavenly spirit, as if he had got it 
all by heart in Greek, and had been able to write any 
number of fierce theological disquisitions on its every 
phrase. 

Rob the Grinder, whose reverence for the inspired 
writings, under the admirable system of the Grinders’ 
School, had been developed by a perpetual bruising of 
his intellectual shins against all the proper names of all 
the tribes of Judah, and by the monotonous repetition of 
hard verses, especially by way of punishment, and by 
the parading of him at six years old in leather breeches 
three times a Sunday, very high up, in a very hot church, 
with a great organ buzzing against his drowsy head, like 
an exceedingly busy bee — Rob the Grinder made a 
mighty show of being edified when the captain ceased to 
read, and generally yawned and nodded while the read- 
ing was in progress. The latter fact being never so 
much as suspected by the good captain. 

Captain Cuttle, also, as a man of business, took to 
keeping books. In these he entered observations on the 
weather, and on the currents of the wagons and other 
vehicles : which he observed in that quarter, to set west- 
ward in the morning and during the greater part of the 
day, and eastward towards the evening. Two or three 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


163 


stragglers appearing in one week, who “ spoke him ” — 
so the captain entered it — on the subject of spectacles, 
and who, without positively purchasing, said they would 
look in again, the captain decided that the business was 
improving, and made an entry in the day-book to that 
effect ; the wind then blowing (which he first recorded) 
pretty fresh, west and by north ; having changed in the 
night. 

One of the captain’s chief difficulties was Mr. Toots, 
who called frequently, and who, without saying much, 
seemed to have an idea that the little back-parlor was 
an eligible room to chuckle in, as he would sit and avail 
himself of its accommodations in that regard by the half- 
hour together, without at all advancing in intimacy with 
the captain. The captain, rendered cautious by his late 
experience, was unable quite to satisfy his mind whether 
Mr. Toots was the mild subject he appeared to be, or was 
a profoundly artful and dissimulating hypocrite. His 
frequent reference to Miss Dombey was suspicious; but 
the captain had a secret kindness for Mr. Toots’s apparent 
reliance on him, and forebore to decide against him for 
the present ; merely eying him, with a sagacity not to be 
described, whenever he approached the subject that was 
nearest to his heart. 

“ Captain Gills,” blurted out Mr. Toots, one day all at 
once, as his manner was, “ do you think you could think 
favorably of that proposition of mine, and give me the 
pleasure of your acquaintance ? ” 

“ Why, I’ll tell you what it is, my lad,” replied the 
captain, who had at length concluded on a course of 
action ; “ I’ve been turning that there, over.” 

“ Captain Gills, it’s very kind of you,” retorted Mr. 
Toots. “ I’m much obliged to you. Upon my word 


164 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and honor. Captain Gills, it would be a charity to 
give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. It really 
would.” 

“ You see, brother,” argued the captain slowly, “ I 
don’t know you.” 

“ But you never can know me, Captain Gills,” replied 
Mr. Toots, steadfast to his point, “ if you don’t give me 
the pleasure of your acquaintance.” 

The captain seemed struck by the originality and 
power of this remark, and looked at Mr. Toots as if 
he thought there was a great deal more in him than 
he had expected. 

“ Well said, my lad,” observed the captain, nodding 
his head thoughtfully ; “ and true. Now look’ee here : 
You’ve made some observations to me, which gives me 
to understand as you admire a certain sweet creetur. 
Hey ? ” 

“ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, gesticulating vio^ 
lently with the hand in which he held his hat, “ Ad- 
miration is not the word. Upon my honor, you have 
no conception what my feelings are. If I could be 
dyed black, and made Miss Dombey’s slave, I should 
consider it a compliment. If, at the sacrifice of all my 
property, I could get transmigrated into Miss Dombey’s 
dog — I — I really think I should never leave off wag- 
ging my tail. I should be so perfectly happy, Captain 
Gills ! ” 

Mr. Toots said it with watery eyes, and pressed his 
hat against his bosom with deep emotion. 

“ My lad,” returned the captain, moved to compas- 
sion, “ if you’re in arnest ” — 

“ Captain Gills,” cried Mr. Toots, “ I’m In such a state 
of mind, and am so dreadfully in earnest, that if I could 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


161 


swear to it upon a hot piece of iron, or a live coal, or 
melted lead, or burning sealing-wax, or anything of that 
sort, I should be glad to hurt myself, as a relief to my 
feelings.” And Mr. Toots looked hurriedly about the 
room, as if for some sufficiently painful means of accom 
plishing his dread purpose. 

The captain pushed his glazed hat back upon his 
head, stroked his face down with his heavy hand — 
making his nose more mottled in the process — and 
planting himself before Mr. Toots, and hooking him by 
the lappel of his coat, addressed him in these words, 
while Mr. Toots looked up into his face with much atten- 
tion and some wonder. 

“If you’re in arnest, you see, my lad,” said the cap- 
tain, “ you’re a object of clemency, and clemency is the 
brightest jewel in the crown of a Briton’s head, for 
which you’ll overhaul the constitution, as laid down in 
Rule Britannia, and, when found, that is the charter as 
them garden angels was a-singing of, so many times over. 
Stand by ! This here proposal o’ your’n takes me a little 
aback. And why ? Because I holds my own only, you 
understand, in these here waters, and haven’t got no 
consort, and may be don’t wish for none. Steady ! You 
hailed me first, along of a certain young lady, as you 
was chartered by. Now if you and me is to keep one 
another’s company at all, that there young creetur’s 
name must never be named nor referred to. I don’ 
know what harm mayn’t have been done by naming of 
it too free afore now, and thereby I brings up short 
D’ye make me out pretty clear, brother ? ” 

“ Well, you’ll excuse me, Captain Gills,” replied Mr 
Toots, “if I don’t quite follow you sometimes. But 
apon my word I — it’s « hard thing, Captain Gills, not 


1 66 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to be able to mention Miss Dombey. I really have got 
such a dreadful load here ! ” — Mr. Toots pathetically 
touched his shirt-front with both hands — “ that I feel 
uight and day exactly as if somebody was sitting upon 
me.” 

“ Them,” said the captain, “ is the terms I offer. If 
they’re hard upon you, brother, as mayhap they are, 
give ’em a wide berth, sheer off, and part company 
cheerily ! ” 

“ Captain Gills,” returned Mr. Toots, “ I hardly know 
how it is, but after what you told me when I came 
here, for the first time, I — I feel that I’d rather think 
about Miss Dombey in your society than talk about her 
in almost anybody else’s. Therefore, Captain Gills, if 
you’ll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance, I shall 
be very happy to accept it on your own conditions. I 
wish to be honorable, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, 
holding back his extended hand for a moment, “ and 
therefore I am obliged to say that I can not help think- 
ing about Miss Dombey. It’s impossible for me to make 
a promise not to think about her.” 

“ My lad,” said the captain, whose opinion of Mr. Toots 
was much improved by this candid avowal, “ a man’s 
thoughts is like the winds, and nobody can’t answer for 
’em for certain, any length of time together. Is it a 
treaty as to words?” 

“As to words, Captain Gills,” returned Mr. Toots, 
u I think I can bind myself.” 

Mr. Toots gave Captain Cuttle his hand upon it, then 
*nd there ; and the captain, with a pleasant and gra- 
cious show of condescension, bestowed his acquaintance 
upon him formally. Mr. Toots seemed much relieved 
and gladdened by the acquisition, and chuckled raptur 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


167 


ously during the remainder of his visit. The captain, 
for his part, was not ill pleased to occupy that position 
of patronage, and was exceedingly well satisfied by his 
own prudence and foresight. 

But rich as Captain Cuttle was in the latter quality, 
he received a surprise that same evening from a no less 
ingenuous and simple youth, than Rob the Grinder. 
Thai artless lad, drinking tea at the same table, and 
bending meekly over his cup and saucer, having taken 
sidelong observations of his master for some time, who 
was reading the newspaper with great difficulty, but much 
dignity through his glasses, broke silence by saying — 

44 Oh ! I beg your pardon, captain, but you mayn’t be 
in want of any pigeons, may you, sir?” 

44 No, my lad,” replied the captain. 

44 Because I was wishing to dispose of mine, captain,” 
said Rob. 

44 Ay, ay ? ” cried the captain, lifting up his bushy 
eyebrows a little. 

44 Yes ; I’m going, captain, if you please,” said Rob. 

44 Going ? Where are you going ? ” asked the captain, 
looking round at him over the glasses. 

“What? didn’t you know that I was going to leave 
you, captain ? ” asked Rob, with a sneaking smile. 

The captain put down the paper, took off his spec- 
tacles, and brought his eyes to bear on the deserter. 

44 Oh yes, captain, I am going to give you warning. 
I thought you’d have known that beforehand, perhaps,” 
«*aid Rob, rubbing his hands, and getting up. 44 If you 
^ould be so good as provide yourself soon, captain, it 
would be a great convenience to me. You couldn’t 
provide yourself by to-morrow morning, I am afraid, 
2aptain ; could you, do you think ? ” 


168 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ And you’re a-going to desert your colors are you, 
my lad ? ” said the captain, after a long examination of 
his face. 

“ Oh, it’s very hard upon a cove, captain,” cried the 
tender Rob, injured and indignant in a moment, “ that 
he can't give lawful warning, without being frowned at 
in that way, and called a deserter. You haven’t any 
right to call a poor cove names, captain. It a’n’t be- 
cause I’m a servant and you’re a master, that you’re 
to go and libel me. What wrong have I done ? Come, 
captain, let me know what my crime is, will you ? ” 

The stricken Grinder wept, and put his coat-cuff in 
his eye. 

“Come, captain,” cried the injured youth, “give my 
crime a name ! What have I been and done ? Have I 
stolen any of the property ? Have I set the house afire ? 
If I have, why don’t you give me in charge, and try 
it ? But to take away the character of a lad that’s been 
a good servant to you, because he can’t afford to stand 
in his own light for your good, what a injury it is, and • 
what a bad return for faithful service ! This is the way 
young coves is spiled and drove wrong. I wonder at 
you, captain, I do.” 

All of which the Grinder howled forth in a lachry- 
mose whine, and backing carefully towards the door. 

“And so you’ve got another berth, have you, my lad?” 
baid the captain, eying him intently. 

** Yes, captain, since you put it in that shape, I have 
got another berth,” cried Rob, backing more and more ; 

“ a better berth than I’ve got here, and one where I 
don’t so much as want your good word, captain, which 
is fort’nate for me, after all the dirt you’ve throw’d at 
me, because I’m poor, and can’t afford to stand in my 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


169 


own light for your good. Yes, I have got another berth ; 
and if it wasn’t for leaving you unprovided, captain, I’d 
go to it now, sooner than I’d take them names from 
you, because I’m poor, and can’t afford to stand in my 
own light for your good. Why do you reproach me 
for being poor, and not standing in my own light for 
your good, captain ? How can you so demean your- 
self ? ” 

“ Look ye here, my boy,” replied the peaceful cap- 
tain. “ Don’t you pay out no more of them words.” 

“ Well, then, don’t you pay in no more of your words, 
captain,” retorted the roused innocent, getting louder in 
his whine, and backing into the shop. “ I’d sooner you 
took my blood than my character.” 

“ Because,” pursued the captain calmly, “ you have 
heerd, maybe, of such a thing as a rope’s end.” 

“ Oh, have I though, captain ? ” cried the taunting 
Grinder. “No I haven’t. I never heerd of any such 
a article ! ” 

“ Well,” said the captain, “ it’s my belief as you’ll 
know more about it pretty soon, if you don’t keep a 
bright look-out. I can read your signals, my lad. You 
may go.” 

“ Oh ! I may go at once, may I, captain ? ” cried Rob, 
exulting in his success. “ But mind ! I never asked to 
go at once, captain. You are not to take away my char- 
acter again, because you send me off of your own accord. 
And you’re not to stop any of my wages, captain ! ” 

His employer settled the last point by producing the 
tin canister and telling the Grinder’s money out in full 
upon the table. Rob, snivelling and sobbing, and griev- 
ously wounded in his feelings, took up the pieces one 
oy one, with a sob and a snivel for each, and tied them 


170 


DOJVIBEY AND SON. 


up separately in knots in his pocket-handkerchief 5 then 
he ascended to the roof of the house and filled his hat 
and pockets with pigeons ; then, came down to his bed 
under the counter and made up his bundle, snivelling 
and sobbing louder, as if he were cut to the heart by old 
associations ; then he whined “ Good-night, captain. I 
leave you without malice ! ” and then, going out upon the 
door-step, pulled the little midshipman’s nose as a part- 
ing indignity, and went away down the street grinning 
triumph. 

The captair., left to himself, resumed his perusal of 
the news as if nothing unusual or unexpected had taken 
place, and went reading on with the greatest assiduity. 
But never a word did Captain Cuttle understand, though 
he read a vast number, for Rob the Grinder was scam- 
pering up one column and down another all through the 
newspaper. 

It is doubtful whether the worthy captain had ever felt 
himself quite abandoned until now ; but now, old Sol 
Gills, Walter, and Heart’s Delight were lost to him in- 
deed, and now Mr. Carker deceived and jeered him 
cruelly. They were all represented in the false Rob, to 
whom he had held forth many a time on the recollections 
that were warm within him ; he had believed in the false 
Rob, and had been glad to believe in him ; he had made 
a companion of him as the last of the old ship’s com- 
pany ; he had taken the command of the little midship- 
man with him at his right hand ; he had meant to do his 
duty by him, and had felt almost as kindly towards the 
boy as if they had been shipwrecked and cast upon a 
desert place together. And now that the false Rob had 
brought distrust, treachery, and meanness into the very 
parlor, which was a kind of sacred place, Captain Cuttle 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


171 


felt as if the parlor might have gone down next, and not 
surprised him much by its sinking, or given him any 
very great concern. 

Therefore Captain Cuttle read the newspaper with 
profound attention and no comprehension, and therefore 
Captain Cuttle said nothing whatever about Rob to him- 
self, or admitted to himself that he was thinking about 
him, or would recognize in the most distant manner 
that Rob had anything to do with his feeling as lonely as 
Robinson Crusoe. 

In the same composed, business-like way, the captain 
stepped over to Leadenhall Market in the dusk, and 
effected an arrangement with a private watchman on 
duty there, to come and put up and take down the shut- 
ters of the Wooden Midshipman every night and morn- 
ing. He then called in at the eating-house to diminish 
by one half the daily rations theretofore supplied to the 
midshipman, and at the public-house to stop the traitor’s 
beer. “ My young man,” said the captain, in explanation 
to the young lady at the bar, “ my young man having 
bettered himself, miss.” Lastly, the captain resolved to 
take possession of the bed under the counter, and to 
turn-in there o’ nights instead of up-stairs, as sole guar- 
dian of the property. 

From this bed Captain Cuttle daily rose thenceforth, 
and clapped on his glazed hat at six o’clock in the morn- 
ing, with the solitary air of Crusoe finishing his toilet 
with his goat-skin cap ; and although his fears of a visi- 
tation from the savage tribe, MacStinger, were somewhat 
cooled, as similar apprehensions on the part of that lone 
mariner used to be by the lapse of a long interval with- 
out any symptoms of the cannibals, he still observed a 
regular routine of defensive operations, and never en- 


172 


DOM BEY AND SON. 


countered a bonnet without previous survey from his 
castle of retreat. In the mean time (during which he 
received no call from Mr. Toots, who wrote to say he 
was out of town) his own voice began to have a strange 
sound in his ears : and he acquired such habits of pro- 
found meditation from much polishing and stowing away 
of the stock, and from much sitting behind the counter 
reading, or looking out of window, that the red rim made 
on his forehead by the hard glazed hat, sometimes ached 
again with excess of reflection. 

The year being now expired, Captain Cuttle deemed 
it expedient to open the packet ; but as he had always 
designed doing this in the presence of Rob the Grinder, 
who had brought it to him, and as he had an idea that 
it would be regular and ship-shape to open it in the pres- 
ence of somebody, he was sadly put to it for want of a 
witness. In this difficulty, he hailed one day with un- 
usual delight the announcement in the Shipping Intel- 
ligence of the arrival of the Cautious Clara, Captain 
John Bunsby, from a coasting voyage ; and to that phi- 
losopher immediately despatched a letter by post, enjoin- 
ing inviolable secrecy as to his place of residence, and 
requesting to be favored with an early visit, in the even- 
ing season. 

Bunsby, who was one of those sages who act upon 
conviction, took some days to get the conviction thor- 
oughly into his mind, that he had received a letter to 
this effect. But when he had grappled with the fact, 
and mastered it, he promptly sent his boy with the mes- 
sage, “ He’s a-coming to-night.” Who being instructed 
to deliver those words and disappear, fulfilled his mission 
like a tarry spirit, charged with a mysterious warning. 

The captain, well pleased to receive it, made prepara* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


173 


tion of pipes and rum and water, and awaited his visitor 
in the back-parlor. At the hour of eight, a deep lowing, 
as of a nautical bull, outside the shop-door, succeeded by 
the knocking of a stick on the panel, announced to the 
listening ear of Captain Cuttle, that Bunsby was along- 
side ; whom he instantly admitted, shaggy and loose, and 
with his stolid mahogany visage, as usual appearing to 
have no consciousness of anything before it, but to be 
attentively observing something that was taking place in 
quite another part of the world. 

“ Bunsby,” said the captain, grasping him by the hand, 
“ What cheer, my lad, what cheer ? ” 

“ Shipmet,” replied the voice within Bunsby, unaccom- 
panied by any sign on the part of the commander him- 
self, “ Hearty, hearty.” 

“ Bunsby ! ” said the captain, rendering irrepressible 
homage to his genius, “ here you are! a man as can give 
an opinion as is brighter than di’monds — and give me 
the lad with the tarry trousers as shines to me like 
di’monds bright, for which you’ll overhaul the Stanfell’s 
Budget, and when found make a note. Here you are, 
a man as gave an opinion in this here very place, that 
has come true, every letter on it,” which the captain 
sincerely believed. 

a Ay, ay ? ” growled Bunsby. 

“ Every letter,” said the captain. 

“For why?” growled Bunsby, looking at his friend 
for the first time. “ Which way ? If so, why not ? 
Therefore.” With these oracular words — they seemed 
almost to make the captain giddy ; they launched him 
upon such a sea of speculation and conjecture — the 
sage submitted to be helped off with his pilot-coat, and 
accompanied his friend into the back-parlor, where his 


174 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


hand presently alighted on the rum-bottle, from which 
he brewed a stiff glass of grog; and presently after- 
wards on a pipe, which he filled, lighted, and began to 
smoke. 

Captain Cuttle, imitating his visitor in the matter of 
these particulars, though the rapt and imperturbable 
manner of the great commander was far above his pow- 
ers, sat in the opposite corner of the fireside, observing 
him respectfully, and as if he waited for some encourage- 
ment or expression of curiosity on Bunsby’s part which 
should lead him to his own affairs. But as the mahogany 
philosopher gave no evidence of being sentient of any- 
thing but warmth and tobacco, except once, when taking 
his pipe from his lips to make room for his glass, he 
incidentally remarked with exceeding gruffness, that his 
name was Jack Bunsby — a declaration that presented 
but small opening for conversation — the captain bespeak- 
ing his attention in a short complimentary exordium, 
narrated the whole history of Uncle Sol’s departure, 
with the change it had produced in his own life and 
fortunes; and concluded by placing the packet on the 
table. 

After a long pause, Mr. Bunsby nodded his head. 

“ Open ? ” said the captain. 

Bunsby nodded again. 

The captain accordingly broke the seal, and disclosed 
to view two folded papers, of which he severally read 
the indorsements, thus : “ Last Will and Testament of 
Solomon Gills.” “ Letter for Ned Cuttle.” 

Bunsby, with his eye on the coast of Greenland, 
seemed to listen for the contents. The captain there- 
fore hemmed to clear his throat, and read the letter 
aloud. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


175 


44 4 My dear Ned Cuttle. When I left home for the 
West Indies’” — 

Here the captain stopped, and looked hard at Bunsby, 
who looked fixedly at the coast of Greenland. 

— 44 4 in forlorn search of intelligence of ray dear boy, 
I knew that if you were acquainted with my design, 
you would thwart it, or accompany me ; and therefore 
I kept it secret. If you ever read this letter, Ned, I 
am likely to be dead. You will easily forgive an old 
friend’s folly then, and will feel for the restlessness and 
uncertainty in which he wandered away on such a wild 
voyage. So no more of that. I have little hope that 
my poor boy will ever read these words, or gladden your 
eyes with the sight of his frank face any more.’ No, 
no; no more,” said Captain Cuttle, sorrowfully meditat- 
ing ; 44 no more. There he lays, all his days ” — 

Mr. Bunsby, who had a musical ear, suddenly bel- 
lowed, 44 In the Bays of Biscay, O ! ” which so affected 
the good captain, as an appropriate tribute to departed 
worth, that he shook him by the hand in acknowledg- 
ment, and w r as fain to wipe his eyes. 

44 Well, well ! ” said the captain with a sigh, as the 
lament of Bunsby ceased to ring and vibrate in the sky- 
light. 44 Affliction sore, long time he bore, and let us 
overhaul the wollume, and there find it.” 

44 Physicians,” observed Bunsby, 44 was in vain.” 

44 Ay, ay, to be sure,” said the captain, 4v what’s the 
good o’ them in two or three hundred fathoms o’ water !” 
Then, returning to the letter, he read on : — 44 4 But if 
he should be by, when it is opened ; ’ ” the captain in- 
voluntarily looked round, and shook his head ; 44 4 or 
should know of it at any other time;’ ” the captain shook 
his head again ; 44 4 my blessing on him ! In case the 


176 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


accompanying paper is not legally written, it matters 
very little, for there is no one interested but you and 
he, and my plain wish is, that if he is living he should 
have what little there may be, and if (as I fear) other- 
wise, that you should have it, Ned. You will respect 
my wish, I know. God bless you for it, and for all 
your friendliness besides, to Solomon Gills/ Buns- 
by!” said the captain, appealing to him solemnly, “ what 
do you make of this ? There you sit, a man as has had 
his head broke from infancy up’ards, and has got a new 
opinion into it at every seam as has been opened. Now, 
what do you make o’ this ? ” 

“ If so be,” returned Bunsby, with unusual prompti- 
tude, “ as he’s dead, my opinion is he won’t come back 
no more. If so be as he’s alive, my opinion is he will. 
Do I say he will ? No. Why not ? Because the bear- 
ings of this obserwation lays in the application on it.” 

“ Bunsby ! ” said Captain Cuttle, who would seem to 
have estimated the value of his distinguished friend’s 
opinions in proportion to the immensity of the difficulty 
he experienced in making anything out of them ; “ Buns- 
by,” said the captain, quite confounded by admiration, 
“ you carry a weight of mind easy, as would swamp one 
of my tonnage soon. But in regard o’ this here will, I 
don’t mean to take no steps towards the property — 
Lord forbid ! — except to keep it for a more rightful 
owner ; and I hope yet as the rightful owner, Sol Gills, 
is living and ’ll come back, strange as it is that he a’n’t 
forwarded no dispatches. Now, what is your opinion, 
Bunsby, as to stowing of these here papers away again, 
and marking outside as they was opened, such a day, in 
oresence of John Bunsby and Ed’ard Cuttle ? ” 

Bunsby, descrying no objection, on the coast of Green* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


177 


land or elsewhere, to this proposal, it was carried into 
execution ; and that great man, bringing his eye into the 
present for a moment, affixed his sign-manual to the 
cover, totally abstaining, with characteristic modesty, 
from the use of capital letters. Captain Cuttle, having 
attached his own left-handed signature, and locked up 
the packet in the iron safe, entreated his guest to mix 
another glass and smoke another pipe ; and doing the 
like himself, fell a-musing over the fire on the possible 
fortunes of the poor old Instrument-maker. 

And now a surprise occurred, so overwhelming and 
terrific that Captain Cuttle, unsupported by the presence 
of Bunsby, must have sunk beneath it, and been a lost 
man from that fatal hour. 

How the captain, even in the satisfaction of admitting 
such a guest, could have only shut the door, and not 
locked it, of which negligence he was undoubtedly 
guilty, is one of those questions that must forever re- 
gain mere points of speculation, or vague charges 
against destiny. But by that unlocked door, at this 
quiet moment, did the fell MacStinger dash into the 
parlor, bringing Alexander MacStinger in her parental 
arms, and confusion and vengeance (not to mention Ju- 
liana MacStinger, and the sweet child’s brother, Charles 
MacStinger, popularly known about the scenes of his 
youthful sports, as Chowley) in her train. She came 
so swiftly and so silently, like a rushing air from the 
neighborhood of the East India Docks, that Captain 
Cuttle found himself in the very act of sitting looking 
#t her, before the calm face with which he had been 
meditating, changed to one of horror and dismay. 

But the moment Captain Cuttle understood the full 
extent of his misfortune, self-preservation dictated an at- 

vol. hi. 12 


178 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


tempt at flight. Darting at the little door which opened 
from the parlor on the steep little range of cellar-steps, 
the captain made a rush, head-foremost, at the latter, 
like a man indifferent to bruises and contusions, who 
only sought to hide himself in the bowels of the earth. 
In this gallant effort he would probably have succeeded, 
but for the affectionate dispositions of Juliana and Chow- 
ley, who pinning him by the legs — one of those dear 
children holding on to each — claimed him as their 
friend, with lamentable cries. In the mean time, Mrs. 
MacStinger, who never entered upon any action of im- 
portance without previously inverting Alexander Mac- 
Stinger, to bring him within the range of a brisk bat- 
tery of slaps, and then sitting him down to cool as the 
reader first beheld him, performed that solemn rite, as 
if on this occasion it were a sacrifice to the Furies ; and 
having deposited the victim on the floor, made at the 
captain with a strength of purpose that appeared to 
threaten scratches to the interposing Bunsby. 

The cries of the two elder MacStingers, and the wail- 
ing of young Alexander, who may be said to have 
passed a piebald childhood, forasmuch as he was black 
in the face during one half of that fairy period of exist- 
ence, combined to make this visitation the more awful. 
But when silence reigned again, and the captain, in a 
violent perspiration, stood meekly looking at Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger, its terrors were at their height. 

“ Oh, Cap’en Cuttle, Cap’en Cuttle 1 ” said Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger, making her chin rigid, and shaking it in unison 
with what, but for the weakness of her sex, might be 
described as her fist. “ Oh, Cap’en Cuttle, Cap’en Cut- 
tie, do you dare to look me in the face, and not be struck 
down in the herth ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


179 


The captain, who looked anything but daring, feebly 
muttered “ Stand by ! ” 

“ Oh I was a weak and trusting fool when I took you 
under my roof, Cap’en Cuttle, I was ! ” cried Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger. 66 To think of the benefits I’ve showered on 
that man, and the way in which I brought my children 
up to love and Aonor him as if he was a father to ’em, 
when there a’n’t a ’ousekeeper, no nor a lodger in our 
street, don’t know that I lost money by that man, and 
by his guzzlings and his muzzlings ” — Mrs. MacStinger 
used the last word for the joint sake of alliteration and 
aggravation, rather than for the expression of any idea 
— “ and when they cried out one and all, shame upon 
him for putting upon an industrious woman, up early 
and late for the good of her young family, and keeping 
her poor place so clean that a individual might have ate 
his dinner, yes, and his tea too, if he was so disposed, 
off any one of the floors or stairs, in spite of all his 
guzzlings and his muzzlings, such was the care and 
pains bestowed upon him ! ” 

Mrs. MacStinger stopped to fetch her breath ; and 
her face flushed with triumph in this second happy in- 
troduction of Captain Cuttle’s muzzlings. 

“ And he runs awa-a-a-ay ! ” cried Mrs. MacStinger, 
with a lengthening-out of the last syllable that made 
the unfortunate captain regard himself as the meanest 
of men; “and keeps away a twelvemonth! From a 
woman ! Sitch is his conscience ! He hasn’t the cour- 
age to meet her hi-i-i-igh ; ” long syllable again ; “ but 
steals away, like a felion. Why, if that baby of mine,” 
said Mrs. MacStinger, with sudden rapidity, “ was to 
t>ffer to go and steal away, I’d do my duty as a mother 
by him, till he was covered with wales ” 


180 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


The young Alexander, interpreting this into a posi- 
tive promise, to be shortly redeemed, tumbled over with 
fear and grief, and lay upon the floor, exhibiting the 
soles of his shoes and making such a deafening outcry, 
that Mrs. MacStinger found it necessary to take him up 
in her arms, where she quieted him, ever and anon, as 
he broke out again, by a shake that seemed enough to 
loosen his teeth. 

“ A pretty sort of a man is Cap’en Cuttle,” said Mrs. 
MacStinger, with a sharp stress on the first syllable 
of the captain’s name, “ to take on for — and to lose 
sleep for, and to faint along of — and to think dead for- 
sooth — and to go up and down the blessed town like a 
mad woman, asking questions after ! Oh, a pretty sort 
of a man ! Ha, ha, ha, ha ! He’s worth all that trouble 
and distress of mind, and much more. That's nothing, 
bless you ! Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Cap’en Cuttle,” said Mrs. 
MacStinger, with severe reaction in her voice and man- 
ner, “ I wish to know if you’re a-coming home.” 

The frightened captain looked into his hat, as if he 
saw nothing for it but to put it on, and give himself 
up. 

“ Cap’en Cuttle,” repeated Mrs. MacStinger, in the 
same determined manner, “ I wish to know if you’re a- 
coming home, sir.’ ? 

The captain seemed quite ready to go, but faintly sug- 
gested something to the effect of “ not making so much 
noise about it.” 

“ Ay, ay, ay,” said Bunsby, in a soothing tone. “ Awast, 
my lass, awast ! ” 

“ And who may you be, if you please ! ” retorted Mrs. 
MacStinger, with chaste loftiness. “ Did you ever lodge 
at Number Nine, Brig-place, sir? My memory may b*? 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


181 


bad, but not with me, I think. There was a Mrs. Joll- 
Bon lived at Number Nine before me, and perhaps you’re 
mistaking me for her. That is my only ways of ac- 
counting for your familiarity, sir.” 

“ Come, come, my lass, awast, awast ! ” said Bunsby. 

Captain Cuttle could hardly believe it, even of this 
great man, though he saw it done with his waking eyes ; 
but Bunsby, advancing boldly, put his shaggy blue arm 
round Mrs. MacStinger, and so softened her by his magic 
way of doing it, and by these few words — he said no 
more — that she melted into tears, after looking upon 
him for a few moments, and observed that a child might 
conquer her now, she was so low in her courage. 

Speechless and utterly amazed, the captain saw him 
gradually persuade this inexorable woman into the shop, 
return for rum and water and a candle, take them to her, 
and pacify her without appearing to utter one word. 
Presently he looked in with his pilot-coat on, and said, 
“ Cuttle, I’m a-going to act as convoy home ; ” and Cap- 
tain Cuttle, more to his confusion than if he had been 
put in irons himself, for safe transport to Brig-place, saw 
the family pacifically filing off, with Mrs. MacStinger at 
their head. He had scarcely time to take down his 
canister, and stealthily convey some money into the 
hands of Juliana MacStinger, his former favorite, and 
Chowley, who had the claim upon him that he was nat- 
urally of a maritime build, before the Midshipman was 
abandoned by them all ; and Bunsby, whispering that 
he’d carry on smart, and hail Ned Cuttle again before he 
went aboard, shut the door upon himself, as the last 
member of the party. 

Some uneasy ideas that he must be walking in his 
sleep, or that he had been troubled with phantoms, and 


182 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


not a family of flesh and blood, beset the captain at first, 
when he went back to the little parlor, and found himself 
alone. Illimitable faith in, and immeasurable admira- 
tion of, the commander of the Cautious Clara, succeeded, 
and threw the captain into a wondering trance. 

Still, as time wore on, and Bunsby failed to reappear, 
the captain began to entertain uncomfortable doubts of 
another kind. Whether Bunsby had been artfully de- 
coyed to Brig-place, and was there detained in safe cus- 
tody as hostage for his friend ; in which case it would 
become the captain, as a man of honor, to release him, 
by the" sacrifice of his own liberty. Whether he had 
been attacked and defeated by Mrs. MacStinger, and 
was ashamed to show himself after his discomfiture. 
Whether Mrs. MacStinger, thinking better of it, in the 
uncertainty of her temper, had turned back to board the 
Midshipman again, and Bunsby, pretending to conduct 
her by a short cut, was endeavoring to lose the family 
amid the wilds and savage places of the city. Above all, 
what it would behoove him, Captain Cuttle, to do, in case 
of his hearing no more, either of the MacS lingers or of 
Bunsby, which, in these wonderful and unforeseen con- 
junctions of events, might possibly happen. 

He debated all this until he was tired ; and still no 
Bunsby. He made up his bed under the counter, all 
ready for turning in ; and still no Bunsby. At length, 
when the captain had given him up, for that night, at 
least, and had begun to undress, the sound of approach- 
ing wheels was heard, and, stopping at the door, was 
succeeded by Bunsby’s hail. 

The captain trembled to think that Mrs. MacStinger 
was not to be got rid of, and had been brought back in a 
coach. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


183 


But no. Bunsby was accompanied by nothing but 
a large box, which he hauled into the shop with his own 
hands, and as soon as he had hauled in, sat upon. Cap- 
tain Cuttle knew it for the chest he had left at Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger’s house, and looking, candle in hand, at Bunsby 
more attentively, believed that he was three sheets in 
the wind, or, in plain words, drunk. It was difficult, 
however, to be sure of this ; the commander having no 
trace of expression in his face when sober. 

“ Cuttle,” said the commander, getting off the chest, 
and opening the lid, “ are these here your traps ? ” 

Captain Cuttle looked in and identified his property. 

“ Done pretty taut and trim, hey, shipmet ? ” said 
Bunsby. 

The grateful and bewildered captain grasped him by 
the hand, and was launching into a reply expressive of 
his astonished feelings, when Bunsby disengaged himself 
by a jerk of his wrist, and seemed to make an effort to 
wink with his revolving eye, the only effect of which 
attempt, in his condition, was nearly to overbalance him. 
He then abruptly opened the door, and shot away to 
rejoin the Cautious Clara with all speed — supposed to 
be his invariable custom, whenever he considered he had 
made a point. 

As it was not his humor to be often sought, Captain 
Cuttle decided not to go or send to him next day, or 
until he should make his gracious pleasure known in 
such wise, or failing that, until some little time should 
have elapsed. The captain, therefore, renewed his soli- 
tary life next morning, and thought profoundly, many 
mornings, noons, and nights, of old Sol Gills, and Buns- 
oy’s sentiments concerning him, and the hopes there were 
of his return. Much of such thinking strengthened Cap- 


184 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


tain Cuttle’s hopes ; and he humored them and himself 
by watching for the Instrument-maker at the door as he 
ventured to do now, in his strange liberty — and setting 
his chair in its place, and arranging the little parlor as it 
used to be, in case he should come home unexpectedly. 
He likewise, in his thoughtfulness, took down a certain 
little miniature of Walter as a schoolboy, from its ac- 
customed nail, lest it should shock the old man on his 
return. The captain had his presentiments, too, some- 
times, that he would come on such a day ; and one par- 
ticular Sunday, even ordered a double allowance of din- 
ner, he was so sanguine. But come, old Solomon did 
not ; and still the neighbors noticed how the seafaring 
man in the glazed hat, stood at the shop-door of an even- 
ing, looking up and down the street. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


185 


CHAPTER XL. 

DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 

It was not in the nature of things that a man of Mr. 
Dombey’s mood, opposed to such a spirit as he had 
raised against himself, should be softened in the im- 
perious asperity of his temper ; or that the cold hard 
armor of pride in which he lived encased, should be 
made more flexible by constant collision with haughty 
scorn and defiance. It is the curse of such a nature — 
it is a main part of the heavy retribution on itself it 
bears within itself — that while deference and concession 
swell its evil qualities, and are the food it grows upon, 
resistance, and a questioning of its exacting claims, foster 
it too, no less. The evil that is in it finds equally its 
means of growth and propagation in opposites. It draws 
support and life from sweets and bitters ; bowed down 
before, or unacknowledged, it still enslaves the breast in 
which it has its throne ; and, worshipped or rejected, is 
as hard a master as the Devil in dark fables. 

Towards his first wife, Mr. Dombey, in his cold and 
lofty arrogance, had borne himself like the removed 
being he almost conceived himself to be. He had been 
“ Mr. Dombey ” with her when she first saw him, and he 
was “Mr. Dombey” when she died. He had asserted 
his greatness during their whole married life, and she 
had meekly recognized it. He had kept his distant seat 


180 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


of state on the top of his throne, and she her humble 
station on its lowest step ; and much good it had done 
him, so to live in solitary bondage to his one idea. He 
had imagined that the proud character of his second wife 
would have been added. to his own — ■ would have merged 
into it, and exalted his greatness. He had pictured him- 
self haughtier than ever, with Edith’s haughtiness sub- 
servient to his. He had never entertained the possibil- 
ity of its arraying itself against him. And now, when 
he found it rising in his path at every step and turn of 
his daily life, fixing its cold, defiant, and contemptuous 
face upon him, this pride of his, instead of withering, or 
hanging down its head beneath the shock, put forth new 
shoots, became more concentrated and intense, more 
gloomy, sullen, irksome, and unyielding, than it had ever 
been before. 

Who wears such armor, too, bears with him ever an- 
other heavy retribution. It is of proof against concilia- 
tion, love, and confidence ; against all gentle sympathy 
from without, all trust, all tenderness, all soft emotion ; 
but to deep stabs in the self-love, it is as vulnerable as 
the bare breast to steel ; and such tormenting festers 
rankle there, as follow on no other wounds, no, though 
dealt with the mailed hand of pride itself, on weaker 
pride, disarmed and thrown down. 

Such wounds were his. He felt them sharply, in the 
solitude of his old rooms ; whither he now began often 
to retire again, and pass long solitary hours. It seemed 
his fate to be ever proud and powerful ; ever humbled 
and powerless where he would be most strong. Who 
seemed fated to work out that doom ? 

Who ? Who was it who could win his wife as she had 
won his boy ! Who was it who had shown him that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


187 


new victory, as he sat in the dark corner ! Who was 
it whose least word did what his utmost means could 
not ? Who was it who, unaided by his love, regard, or 
notice, thrived and grew beautiful when those so aided 
died ! Who could it be, but the same child at whom 
he had often glanced uneasily in her motherless infancy, 
with a kind of dread, lest he might come to hate her ; 
and of whom his foreboding was fulfilled, for he did hate 
her in his heart. 

Yes, and he would have it hatred, and he made it 
hatred, though some sparkles of the light in which she 
had appeared before him on the memorable night of his 
return home with his bride, occasionally hung about her 
still. He knew now that she was beautiful ; he did not 
dispute that she was graceful and winning, and that in 
the bright dawn of her womanhood she had come upon 
him, a surprise. But he turned even this against her. 
In his sullen and unwholesome brooding, the unhappy 
man, with a dull perception of his alienation from all 
hearts, and a vague yearning for what he had all his life 
repelled, made a distorted picture of his rights and 
wrongs, and justified himself with it against her. The 
worthier she promised to be of him, the greater claim he 
was disposed to antedate upon her duty and submission. 
When had she ever shown him duty and submission ? 
Did she grace his life — or Edith’s? Had her attrac- 
tions been manifested first to him — or Edith ? Why, 
he and she had never been, from her birth, like father 
and child ! They had always been estranged. She 
had crossed him every way and everywhere. She was 
leagued against him now. Her very beauty softened 
natures that were obdurate to him, and insulted him 
with an unnatural triumph. 


188 


DJMBEY AND SON. 


It may have been that in all this there were mutter- 
ings of an awakened feeling in his breast, however 
selfishly aroused by his position of disadvantage, in com- 
parison with w T hat she might have made his life. But 
he silenced the distant thunder with the rolling of his 
sea of pride. He would bear nothing but his pride. And 
in his pride, a heap of inconsistency, and misery, and 
self-inflicted torment, he hated her. 

To the moody, stubborn, sullen demon, that possessed 
him, his wife opposed her different pride in its full force. 
They never could have led a happy life together ; but 
nothing could have made it more unhappy, than the wil- 
ful and determined warfare of such elements. His pride 
was set upon maintaining his magnificent supremacy, and 
forcing recognition of it from her. She would have been 
racked to death, and turned but her haughty glance of 
calm inflexible disdain upon him, to the last. Such re- 
cognition from Edith ! He little knew through what a 
storm and struggle she had been driven onward to the 
crowning honor of his hand. He little knew how much 
she thought she had conceded, when she suffered him to 
call her wife. 

Mr. Dombey was resolved to show her that he was 
supreme. There must be no will but his. Proud he 
desired that she should be, but she must be proud for, 
not against him. As he sat alone, hardening, he would 
often hear her go out and come home, treading the round 
of London life with no more heed of his liking or dislik- 
ing, pleasure or displeasure, than if he had been her 
groom. Her cold supreme indifference — his own un- 
questioned attribute usurped — stung him more than 
any other kind of treatment could have done ; and he de- 
termined to bend her to his magnificent and stately will. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


189 


He had been long communing with these thoughts, 
when one night he sought her in her own apartment, 
after he had heard her return home late. She was 
alone, in her brilliant dress, and had but that moment 
come from her mother’s room. Her face was melan- 
choly and pensive, when he came upon her; but it 
marked him at the door ; for, glancing at the mirror 
before it, he saw immediately, as in a picture-frame, 
the knitted brow, and darkened beauty that he knew 
so well. 

“ Mrs. Dombey,” he said, entering, “ I must beg leave 
to have a few words with you.” 

“ To-morrow,” she replied. 

“ There is no time like the present, madam,” he re- 
turned. “ You mistake your position. I am used to 
choose my own times ; not to have them chosen for me. 
I think you scarcely understand who and what I am, 
Mrs. Dombey.” 

“ I think,” she answered, “ that I understand you very 
well.” 

She looked upon him as she said so, and folding her 
white arms, sparkling with gold and gems, upon her 
swelling breast, turned away her eyes. 

If she had been less handsome, and less stately in her 
cold composure, she might not have had the power of 
impressing him with the sense of disadvantage that pene- 
trated through his utmost pride. But she had the power, 
and he felt it keenly. He glanced round the room : saw 
how the splendid means of personal adornment, and the 
luxuries of dress, were scattered here and there, and dis- 
regarded ; not in mere caprice and carelessness (or so he 
thought), but in a steadfast, haughty, disregard of costly 
things : and felt it more and more. Chaplets of flowers, 


190 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


plumes of feathers, jewels, laces, silks, and satins ; look 
where he would, he saw riches, despised, poured out, and 
made of no account. The very diamonds — a marriage 
gift — that rose and fell impatiently upon her bosom, 
seemed to pant to break the chain that clasped them 
round her neck, and roll down on the floor where she 
might tread upon them. 

He felt his disadvantage, and he showed it. Solemn 
and strange among this wealth of color and voluptuous 
glitter, strange and constrained towards its haughty mis- 
tress, whose repellant beauty it repeated, and presented 
all around him, as in so many fragments of a mirror, 
he was conscious of embarrassment and awkwardness. 
Nothing that ministered to her disdainful self-possession 
could fail to gall him. Galled and irritated with him- 
self, he sat down, and went on in no improved humor : 

“ Mrs. Dombey, it is very necessary that there should 
be some understanding arrived at between us. Your 
conduct does not please me, madam.” 

She merely glanced at him again, and again averted 
her eyes; but she might have spoken for an hour, and 
expressed less. 

“ I repeat, Mrs. Dombey, does not please me. I have 
already taken occasion to request that it may be cor- 
rected. I now insist upon it.” 

“ You chose a fitting occasion for your first remon- 
strance, sir, and you adopt a fitting manner, and a fitting 
word for your second. You insist ! To me ! ” 

“ Madam,” said Mr. Dombey, with his most offensive 
air of state, “ I have made you my wife. You bear my 
name. You are associated with my position and my 
reputation. I will not say that the world in general may 
be disposed to think you honored by that association ; but 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


191 


I will say that I am accustomed to 4 insist,’ to my con * 
nections and dependents.” 

44 Which may you be pleased to consider me ? ” she 
asked. 

“ Possibly I may think that my wife should partake — 
or does partake, and cannot help herself — of both char- 
acters, Mrs. Dombey.” 

She bent her eyes upon him steadily, and set her 
trembling lips. He saw her bosom throb, and saw her 
face flush and turn white. All this he could know, and 
did : but he could not know that one word was whisper- 
ing in the deep recesses of her heart, to keep her quiet ; 
and that the word was Florence. 

Blind idiot, rushing to a precipice ! He thought she 
stood in awe of him / 

44 You are too expensive, madam,” said Mr. Dombey. 
44 You are extravagant. You waste a great deal of 
money — or what would be a great deal in the pockets 
of most gentlemen — in cultivating a kind of society that 
is useless to me, and, indeed, that upon the whole is 
disagreeable to me. I have to insist upon a total change 
in all these respects. I know that in the novelty of 
possessing a tithe of such means as fortune has placed 
at your disposal, ladies are apt to run into a sudden 
extreme. There has been more than enough of that 
extreme. I beg that Mrs. Granger’s very different ex- 
periences may now come to the instruction of Mrs. Dom- 
bey.” 

Still the fixed look, the trembling lips, the throbbing 
breast, the face now crimson and now white ; and still 
the deep whisper Florence, Florence, speaking to her 
in the beating of her heart. 

His insolence of self-importance dilated as he saw this 


192 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


alteration in her. Swollen no less by her past scorn of 
him, and his so recent feeling of disadvantage, than by 
her present submission (as he took it to be), it became 
too mighty for his breast, and burst all bounds. Why, 
who could long resist his lofty will and pleasure ! He 
had resolved to conquer her, and look here ! 

“ You will further please, madam,” said Mr. Dombey. 
in a tone of sovereign command, “ to understand distinctly, 
that I am to be deferred to and obeyed. That I must 
have a positive show and confession of deference before 
the world, madam. I am used to this. T require it as 
my right. In short I will have it. I consider it no un- 
reasonable return for the worldly advancement that has 
befallen you ; and I believe nobody will be surprised, 
either at its being required from you, or at your making 
it. — To me — to me ! ” he added, with emphasis. 

No word from her. No change in her. Her eyes 
upon him. 

" I have learnt from your mother, Mrs. Dombey,” said 
Mr. Dombey, with magisterial importance, “ what no 
doubt you know, namely, that Brighton is recommended 
for her health. Mr. Carker has been so good ” — 

She changed suddenly. Her face and bosom glowed 
as if the red light of an angry sunset had been flung 
upon them. Not unobservant of the change, and putting 
his own interpretation upon it, Mr. Dombey resumed : 

“ Mr. Carker has been so good as to go down and 
fiecure a house there, for a time. On the return of the 
establishment to London, I shall take such steps for its 
better management as I consider necessary. One of 
these, will be the engagement at Brighton (if it is to be 
effected), of a very respectable reduced person there, a 
Mrs. Pipchin, formerly employed in a situation of trust 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


193 


in my family, to act as house-keeper. An establishment 
like this, presided over but nominally, Mrs. Dombey, 
requires a competent head.” 

She had changed her attitude before he arrived at 
these words, and now sat — still looking at him fixedly 
— turning a bracelet round and round upon her arm ; 
not winding it about with a light womanly^ touch, but 
pressing and dragging it over the smooth skin, until the 
white limb showed a bar of red. 

“ I observed,” said Mr. Dombey — “ and this concludes 
what I deem it necessary to say to you at present, Mrs. 
Dombey — I observed a moment ago, madam, that my 
allusion to Mr. Carker was received in a peculiar man- 
ner. On the occasion of my happening to point out to 
you, before that confidential agent, the objection I had to 
your mode of receiving my visitors, you were pleased 
to object to his presence. You will have to get the bet- 
ter of that objection, madam, and to accustom yourself to 
it very probably on many similar occasions ; unless you 
adopt the remedy which is in your own hands, of giving 
me no cause of complaint. Mr. Carker,” said Mr. Dom- 
bey, who, after the emotion he had just seen, set great 
store by this means of reducing his proud wife, and who 
was perhaps sufficiently willing to exhibit his power to 
that gentleman in a new and triumphant aspect, “Mr. 
Carker being in my confidence, Mrs. Dombey, may very 
wsll be in yours to such an extent. I hope, Mrs. Dom- 
bey,” he continued, after a few moments, during which, 
in his increasing haughtiness, he had improved on his 
idea, “ I may not find it necessary ever to intrust Mr. 
Carker with any message of objection or remonstrance 
to you ; but as it would be derogatory to my position and 
reputation to be frequently holding trivial disputes with 
VOL. III. 13 


194 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a lady upon whom I have conferred the highest distinc- 
tion that it is in my power to bestow, I shall not scruple 
to avail myself of his services if I see occasion. ,, 

“ And now,” he thought, rising in his moral mag- 
nificence, and rising a stiffer and more impenetrable man 
than ever, “she knows me and my resolution.” 

The hand that had so pressed the bracelet was laid 
heavily upon her breast, but she looked at him still, with 
an unaltered face, and said in a low voice : 

“ Wait ! For God’s sake ! I must speak to you.” 

Why did she not, and what was the inward struggle 
that rendered her incapable of doing so, for minutes, 
while, in the strong constraint she put upon her face, it 
was as fixed as any statue’s — looking upon him with 
neither yielding nor unyielding, liking nor hatred, pride 
nor humility : nothing but a searching gaze. 

“ Did I ever tempt you to seek my hand ? Did I ever 
use any art to win you ? Was I ever more conciliating 
to you when you pursued me, than I have been since our 
marriage ? Was I ever other to you than I am ? ” 

“It is wholly unnecessary, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, 
“ to enter upon such discussions.” 

“ Did you think I loved you ? Did you know I did 
not ? Did you ever care, man ! for my heart, or propose 
to yourself to win the worthless thing ? Was there any 
poor pretence of any in our bargain ? Upon your side, 
or on mine ? ” 

“These questions,” said Mr. Dombey, “are all wide 
of the purpose, madam.” 

She moved between him and the door to prevent his 
going away, and drawing her majestic figure to its height, 
looked steadily upon him still. 

“ You answer each of them. You answer me before I 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


195 


speak, I see. How can you help it ; you who know the 
miserable truth as well as I ? Now, tell me. If I loved 
you to devotion, could I do more than render up my 
whole will and being to you, as you have just demanded? 
If my heart were pure and all untried, and you its idol, 
could you ask more ; could you have more ? ” 

“ Possibly not, madam,” he returned coolly. 

“ You know how different I aim You see me looking 
on you now, and you can read the warmth of passion for 
you that is breathing in my face.” Not a curl of the 
proud lip, not a flash of the dark eye, nothing but the 
same intent and searching look, accompanied these words. 
“ You know my general history. You have spoken of 
my mother. Do you think you can degrade, or bend, or 
break me to submission and obedience ? ” 

Mr. Dombey smiled, as he might have smiled at an 
inquiry whether he thought he could raise ten thousand 
pounds. 

“ If there is anything unusual here,” she said, with a 
slight motion of her hand before her brow, which did not 
for a moment flinch from its immovable and otherwise 
expressionless gaze, “ as I know there are unusual feel- 
ings here,” raising the hand she pressed upon her bosom, 
and heavily returning it, “ consider that there is no com- 
mon meaning in the appeal I am going to make you. 
Yes, for I am going ; ” she said it as in prompt reply to 
something in his face ; “ to appeal to you.” 

Mr. Dombey, with a slightly condescending bend of 
his chin that rustled and cracked his stiff cravat, sat 
down on a sofa that was near him, to hear the appeal. 

“ If you can believe that I am of such a nature now,” 
—-lie fancied he saw tears glistening in hei eyes, and he 
thought, complacently, that he had forced them from her, 


J96 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


though none fell on her cheek, and she regarded him as 
steadily as ever, — “ as would make what I now say 
almost incredible to myself, said to any man who had be- 
come my husband, but, above all, said to you, you may, 
perhaps, attach the greater weight to it. In the dark 
end to which we are tending, and may come, we shall 
not involve ourselves alone (that might not be much), 
but others.” 

Others ! He knew at whom that word pointed, and 
frowned heavily. 

“ I speak to you for the sake of others. Also your 
own sake ; and for mine. Since our marriage, you have 
been arrogant to me ; and I have repaid you in kind. 
You have shown to me and every one around us, every 
day and hour, that you think I am graced and distin- 
guished by your alliance. I do not think so, and have 
shown that too. It seems you do not understand, or (so 
far as your power can go) intend that each of us shall 
take a separate course ; and you expect from me instead, 
a homage you will never have.” 

Although her face was still the same, there was em- 
phatic confirmation of this “ Never,” in the very breath 
she drew. 

“ I feel no tenderness towards you ; that you know. 
You would care nothing for it, if I did or could. I know 
as well that you feel none towards me. But we are 
linked together ; and in the knot that ties us, as I have 
said, others are bound up. We must both die ; we are 
both connected with the dead already, each by a little 
child. Let us forbear.” 

Mr. Dombey took a long respiration, as if he would 
have said, Oh ! w r as this all ! 

“ There is no wealth,” she went on, turning paler as 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


■J 97 


she watched him, while her eyes grew yet more lustrous 
in their earnestness, “ that could buy these words of me, 
and the meaning that belongs to them. Once cast away 
as idle breath, no wealth or power can bring them back. 
I mean them ; I have weighed them; and I will be true 
to what I undertake. If you will promise to forbear on 
your part, I will promise to forbear on mine. We are a 
most unhappy pair, in whom, from different causes, every 
sentiment that blesses marriage, or justifies it, is rooted 
out ; but in the course of time, some friendship, or some 
fitness for each other, may arise between us. I will try 
to hope so, if you will make the endeavor too ; and I 
will look forward to a better and a happier use of age 
than I have made of youth or prime.” 

Throughout she had spoken in a low plain voice, that 
neither rose nor fell ; ceasing, she dropped the hand with 
which she had enforced herself to be so passionless and 
distinct, but not the eyes with which she had so steadily 
observed him. 

“ Madam,” said Mr. Dombey, with his utmost dignity, 
“ I cannot entertain any proposal of this extraordinary 
nature.” 

She looked at him yet, without the least change. 

“ I cannot,” said Mr. Dombey, rising as he spoke, 
“consent to temporize or treat with you, Mrs. Dombey, 
upon a subject as to which you are in possession of my 
opinions and expectations. I have stated my ultimatum , 
madam, and have only to request your very serious at- 
tention to it.” 

To see the face change to its old expression, deepened 
in intensity ! To see the eyes droop as from some mean 
and odious object ! To see the lighting of the haughty 
brow To se? scorn, anger, indignation, and abhorrence 


198 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


starting into sight, and the pale blank earnestness vanish 
like a mist ! He could not choose but look, although he 
looked to his dismay. 

“ Go, sir ! ” she said, pointing with an imperious hand 
towards the door. “Our first and last confidence is at 
an end. Nothing can make us stranger to each other 
than we are henceforth.” 

“ I shall take my rightful course, madam,” said Mr. 
Dombey, “ undeterred, you may be sure, by any general 
declamation.” 

She turned her back upon him, and, without reply, sat 
down before her glass. 

“ I place my reliance on your improved sense of duty, 
and more correct feeling, and better reflection, madam,” 
said Mr. Dombey. 

She answered not one word. He saw no more ex- 
pression of any heed of him, in the mirror, than if he 
had been an unseen spider on the wall, or beetle on the 
floor, or rather, than if he had been the one or other, 
seen and crushed when she last turned from him, and 
forgotten among the ignominious and dead vermin of 
the ground. 

He looked back, as he went out at the door, upon the 
well-lighted and luxurious room, the beautiful and glitter- 
ing objects everywhere displayed, the shape of Edith in 
its rich dress seated before her glass, and the face of 
Edith as the glass presented it to him ; and betook him- 
self to his old chamber of cogitation, carrying away with 
him a vivid picture in his mind of all these things, and 
a rambling and unaccountable speculation (such as some- 
times comes into a man’s head) how they would all look 
when he saw them next. 

For the rest, Mr. Dombey was very taciturn, and very 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


199 


dignified, and very confident of carrying out his pur- 
pose ; and remained so. 

He did not design accompanying the family to 
Brighton ; but he graciously informed Cleopatra at 
breakfast, on the morning of departure, which arrived 
a day or two afterwards, that he might be expected 
down, soon. There was no time to be lost in getting 
Cleopatra to any place recommended as being salutary ; 
for, indeed, she seemed upon the wane, and turning of 
the earth, earthy. 

Without having undergone any decided second attack 
of her malady, the old woman seemed to have crawled 
backward in her recovery from the first. She was more 
lean and shrunken, more uncertain in her imbecility, 
and made stranger confusions in her mind and memory. 
Among other symptoms of this last affliction, she fell 
into the habit of confounding the names of her two sons- 
in-law, the living and the deceased ; and in general called 
Mr. Dombey, either “ Grangeby,” or “ Domber,” or in- 
differently, both. 

But she was youthful, very youthful still ; and in her 
youthfulness appeared at breakfast, before going away, in 
a new bonnet, made express, and a travelling robe that 
was embroidered and braided like an old baby's. It was 
not easy to put her into a fly-away bonnet now, or to 
keep the bonnet in its place on the back of her poor 
nodding head, when it was got on. In this instance, it 
had not only the extraneous effect of being always on one 
side, but of being perpetually tapped on the crown by 
Flowers the maid, who attended in the background dur- 
ing breakfast to perform that duty. 

“Now my dearest Grangeby,” said Mrs. Skewton, 

you must posively prom,” she cut some of her words 


200 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


short, and cut out others altogether, “ come down very 
soon.” 

“I said just now, madam,” returned Mr. Dombey, 
loudly, and laboriously, “that I am coming in a day 
or two.” 

“ Bless you, Domber ! ” 

Here the major, who was come to take leave of the 
ladies, and who was staring through his apoplectic eyes 
at Mrs. Skewton’s face, with the disinterested composure 
of an immortal being, said : 

“ Begad, ma’am, you don’t ask old Joe to come ! ” 

“ Sterious wretch, who’s he ? ” lisped Cleopatra. But 
a tap on the bonnet from Flowers seeming to jog her 
memory, she added, “ Oh ! You mean yourself, you 
naughty creature ! ” 

“ Devilish queer, sir,” whispered the major to Mr. 
Dombey. “ Bad case. Never did wrap up enough ; ” 
the major being buttoned to the chin. “ Why who 
should J. B. mean by Joe, but old Joe Bagstock — 
Joseph — Your slave — Joe, ma’am ? Here ! Here’s 
the man ! Here are the Bagstock bellows, ma’am ! ” 
cried the major, striking himself a sounding blow on 
the chest. 

“ My dearest Edith — Grangeby — it’s most trordinry 
thing,” said Cleopatra, pettishly, “ that Major ” — 

“ Bagstock ! J. B. ! ” cried the major, seeing that she 
faltered for his name. 

“Well, it don’t matter,” said Cleopatra, “Edith, my 
love, you know I never could remember names — what 
was it? oh! — most trordinry thing that so many people 
want to com 3 down to see me. I’m not going for long 
I’m coming back. Surely they can wait, till I come 
back ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


201 


Cleopatra looked all round the table as she said it, and 
appeared very uneasy. 

“ I won’t have visitors — really don’t want visitors,” 
she said ; “ little repose — and all that sort of thing — is 
what I quire. No odious brutes must proach me till I’ve 
shaken off this numbness;” and in a grisly resumption 
of her coquettish ways, she made a dab at the major 
with her fan, but overset Mr. Dombey’s breakfast-cup 
instead, which was in quite a different direction. 

Then she called for Withers, and charged him to see 
particularly that word was left about some trivial altera- 
tions in her room, which must be all made before she 
came back, and which must be set about immediately, as 
there was no saying how soon she might come back ; for 
she had a great many engagements, and all sorts of 
people to call upon. Withers received these directions 
with becoming deference, and gave his guaranty for 
their execution ; but when he withdrew a pace or two 
behind her, it appeared as if he couldn’t help looking 
strangely at the major, who couldn’t help looking 
strangely at Mr. Dombey, who. couldn’t help looking 
strangely at Cleopatra, who couldn’t help nodding her 
bonnet over one eye, and rattling her knife and fork 
upon her plate in using them as if she were playing 
castanets. 

Edith alone never lifted her eyes to any face at the 
table, and never seemed dismayed by anything her 
mother said or did. She listened to her disjointed talk, 
or at least, turned her head towards her when addressed ; 
replied in a few low words when necessary ; and some- 
times stopped her when she was rambling, or brought 
Her thoughts back with a monosyllable, to the point from 
which they had strayed. The mother, however unsteady 


202 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


in other things, was constant in this — that she was 
always observant of her. She would look at the beauti- 
ful face, in its marble stillness and severity, now with a 
kind of fearful admiration ; now in a giggling foolish 
effort to move it to a smile ; now with capricious tears 
and jealous shakings of her head, as imagining herself 
neglected by it ; always with an attraction towards it, 
that never fluctuated like her other ideas, but had con- 
stant possession of her. From Edith she would some- 
times look at Florence, and back again at Edith, in a 
manner that was wild enough ; and sometimes she would 
try to look elsewhere, as if to escape from her daughter's 
face ; but back to it she seemed forced to come, although 
it never sought hers unless sought, or troubled her with 
one single glance. 

The breakfast concluded, Mrs. Skewton, affecting to 
lean girlishly upon the major’s arm, but heavily sup- 
ported on the other side by Flowers the maid, and 
propped up behind by Withers the page, was conducted 
to the carriage, which was to take her, Florence, and 
Edith to Brighton. 

“ And is Joseph absolutely banished ?” said the major, 
thrusting in his purple face over the steps. “ Damme, 
ma’am, is Cleopatra so hard-hearted as to forbid her 
faithful Antony Bagstock to approach the presence ? ” 

“ Go along ! ” said Cleopatra, “ I can’t bear you. You 
6kall see me when I come back, if you are very good.” 

“ Tell Joseph, he may live in hope, ma’am,” said the 
major ; “ or lie’ll die in despair.” 

Cleopatra shuddered and leaned back. “ Edith, my 
dear,” she said. “ Tell him ” — 

“ What ? ” 

“ Such dreadful words,” said Cleopatra. “ He uses 
such dreadful words ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


203 


Edith signed to him to retire, gave the word to go on, 
and left the objectionable major to Mr. Dombey. To 
whom he returned, whistling. 

“ I’ll tell you what, sir,” said the major, with his hands 
behind him, and his legs very wide asunder, “ a fair 
friend of ours has removed to Queer-street.” 

“ What do you mean, major ? ” inquired Mr. Dombey. 

“ I mean to say, Dombey,” returned the major, “ that 
you’ll soon be an orphan-in-law.” 

Mr. Dombey appeared to relish this waggish descrip- 
tion of himself so very little that the major wound up 
with the horse’s cough, as an expression of gravity. 

“ Damme, sir,” said the major, “ there is no use in dis- 
guising a fact. Joe is blunt, sir. That’s his nature. If 
you take old Josh at all, you take him as you find him ; 
and a de-vilish rusty, old rasper, of a close-toothed, J. B. 
file, you do find him. Dombey,” said the major, u your 
wife’s mother is on the move, sir.” 

“ I fear,” returned Mr. Dombey, with much philos- 
ophy, “ that Mrs. Skewton is shaken.” 

“ Shaken, Dombey ! ” said the major. “ Smashed ! ” 

“ Change, however,” pursued Mr. Dombey, “ and at- 
tention may do much yet.” 

“ Don’t believe it, sir,” returned the major. “ Damme, 
sir, she never wrapped up enough. If a man don’t 
wrap up,” said the major, taking in another button of his 
buff waistcoat, “ he has nothing to fall back upon. But 
some people will die. They will do it. Damme, they 
will . They’re obstinate. I tell you what, Dombey, it 
may not be ornamental ; it may not be refined ; it may 
be rough and tough ; but a little of the genuine old Eng- 
lish Bagstock stamina, sir, would do all the good in the 
world to th 3 human breed.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


£04 

After imparting this precious piece of information, the 
major, who was certainly true-blue, whatever other en- 
dowments he may have possessed or wanted, coming 
within the “ genuine old English ” classification, which 
has never been exactly ascertained, took his lobster-eyes 
and his apoplexy to the club, and choked there all day. 

Cleopatra, at one time fretful, at another self-compla- 
cent, sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, and at all 
times juvenile, reached Brighton the same night, fell to 
pieces as usual, and was put away in bed ; where a 
gloomy fancy might have pictured a more potent skeleton 
than the maid, who should have been one, watching at 
the rose-colored curtains, which were carried down to 
shed their bloom upon her. 

It was settled in high council of medical authority 
that she should take a carriage airing every day, and 
that it was important she should get out every day and 
walk if she could. Edith was ready to attend her — al- 
ways ready to attend her, with the same mechanical at- 
tention and immovable beauty — and they drove out 
alone ; for Edith had an uneasiness in the presence of 
Florence, now that her mother was worse, and told 
Florence, with a kiss, that she would rather they two 
went alone. 

Mrs. Skewton, on one particular day, was in the ir- 
resolute, exacting, jealous temper that had developed 
itself on her recovery from her first attack. After sit- 
ting silent in the carriage watching Edith for some time, 
she took her hand and kissed it passionately. The hand 
was neither given nor withdrawn, but simply yielded to 
her raising of it, and being released, dropped down 
again, almost as if it were insensible. At this she be- 
gan to whimper and moan, and say what a mother the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


205 


had been, and how she was forgotten ! This she con- 
tinued to do at capricious intervals, even when they had 
alighted ; when she herself was halting along with the 
joint support of Withers and a stick, and Edith was 
walking by her side, and the carriage slowly following at 
a little distance. 

It was a' bleak, lowering, windy day, and they were 
out upon the Downs with nothing but a bare sweep of 
land between them and the sky. The mother, with a 
querulous satisfaction in the monotony of her complaint, 
was still repeating it in a low voice from time to time, 
and the proud form of her daughter moved beside her 
slowly, when there came advancing over a dark ridge 
before them, two other figures, which in the distance, 
were so like an exaggerated imitation of their own, that 
Edith stopped. 

Almost as she stopped, the two figures stopped ; and 
that one which to Edith’s thinking was like a distorted 
shadow of her mother, spoke to the other, earnestly, and 
with a pointing hand towards them. That one seemed 
inclined to turn back, but the other, in which Edith rec- 
ognized enough that was like herself to strike her with 
an unusual feeling, not quite free from fear, came on ; 
and then they came on together. 

The greater part of this observation she made while 
walking towards them, for her stoppage had been mo- 
mentary. Nearer observation showed her that they 
were poorly dressed, as wanderers about the country 
that the younger woman carried knitted work or some 
such goods for sale ; and that the old one toiled on 
empty-handed. 

And yet, however far removed she was in dress, in 
dignity, in beauty, Edith could not but compare the 


206 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


younger woman with herself, still. It may have beet 
that she saw upon her face some traces which she knew 
were lingering in her own soul, if not yet written on 
that index ; but, as the woman came on, returning her 
gaze, fixing her shining eyes upon her, undoubtedly pre- 
senting something of her own air and stature, and ap- 
pearing to reciprocate her own thoughts, she felt a chill 
creep over her, as if the day were darkening, and the 
wind were colder. 

They had now come up. The old woman holding out 
her hand importunately, stopped to beg of Mrs. Skew- 
ton. The younger one stopped too, and she and Edith 
looked in one another’s eyes. 

“ What is it that you have to sell ? ” said Edith. 

“ Only this,” returned the woman, holding out her 
wares, without looking at them. “ I sold myself long 
ago.” 

“ My lady, don’t believe her,” croaked the old woman 
to Mrs. Skewton ; “ don’t believe nvhat she says. She 
loves to talk like that. She’s my handsome and unduti- 
ful daughter. She gives me nothing but reproaches, my 
lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my 
lady, how she turns upon her poor old mother with her 
looks.” 

As Mrs. Skewton drew her purse out with a trembling 
hand, and eagerly fumbled for some money, which the 
other old woman greedily watched for — their heads all 
but touching in their hurry and decrepitude — Edith in- 
terposed : 

“ I have seen you,” addressing the old woman, “be- 
fore.” 

“ Yes, my lady,” with a courtesy. “ Down in War- 
wickshire. The morning among the trees. When you 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


207 


wouldn’t give me nothing. But the gentleman he give 
me something! O, bless him, bless him !” mumbled the 
old woman, holding up her skinny hand, and grinning 
frightfully at her daughter. 

“ It’s of no use attempting to stay me, Edith ! ” said 
Mrs. Skewton, angrily anticipating an objection from 
her. “ You know nothing about it. I won’t be dis- 
suaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a 
good mother.” 

“ Yes, my lady, yes,” chattered the old woman, hold- 
ing out her avaricious hand. “ Thankee, my lady. 
Lord bless you, my lady. Sixpence more, my pretty 
lady, as a good mother yourself.” 

“And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old 
creature, sometimes, I assure you,” said Mrs. Skewton, 
whimpering. “ There ! Shake hands with me. You’re 
a very good old creature — full of wliat’s-his-name — 
and all that. You’re all affection and et cetera, a’n’t 
you?” 

“ Oh yes, my lady ! ” 

“ Yes, I’m sure you are ; and so ’s that gentlemanly 
creature Grangeby. I must really shake hands with 
you again. And now you can go, you know ; and I 
hope,” addressing the daughter, “ that you’ll show more 
gratitude, and natural what’s-its-name, and all the rest 
of it — but I never did remember names — for there 
never was a better mother than the good old creature’s 
been to you. Come, Edith ! ” 

As the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering, 
and wiping its eyes with a gingerly remembrance of 
rouge in their neighborhood, the old woman hobbled 
another way, mumbling and counting her money. Not 
one word more, nor one other gesture, had been ex- 


208 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


changed between Edith and the younger woman, but 
neither had removed her eyes from the other for a mo- 
ment. They had remained confronted until now, when 
Edith, as awakening from a dream, passed slowly on. 

“ You’re a handsome woman,” muttered her shadow, 
looking after her ; “ but good looks won’t save us. And 
you’re a proud woman ; but pride won’t save us. We 
had need to know each other when we meet again. I ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


209 


CHAPTER XLI. 

NEW VOICES IN THE WAVES. 

All is going on as it was wont. The waves are 
hoarse with repetition of their mystery : tb 3 dust lies 
piled upon the shore ; the sea-birds soar and hover ; the 
winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight ; the 
white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible 
country far away. 

With a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds 
herself again on the old ground so sadly trodden, yet so 
happily, and thinks of him in the quiet place, where he 
and she have many and many a time conversed together, 
with the water welling up about his couch. And now, 
as she sits pensive there, she hears in the wild low mur- 
mur of the sea, his little story told again, his very w r ords 
repeated; and finds that all her life and hopes, and 
griefs, since — in the solitary house, and in the pageant 
it has changed to — have a portion in the burden of the 
marvellous song. 

And gentle Mr. Toots, who wanders at a distance, 
looking wistfully towards the figure that he dotes upon, 
and has followed there, but cannot in his delicacy disturb 
at such a time, likewise hears the requiem of little Dom- 
bey on the waters, rising and falling in the lulls of their 
eternal madrigal in praise of Florence. Yes ! and he 
faintly understands, poor Mr. Toots, that they are saying 
VOL. III. 14 


210 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


something of a time when he was sensible of being 
brighter and not addle-brained ; and the tears rising in 
his eyes when he fears that he is dull and stupid now’, 
and good for little but to be laughed at, diminish his 
satisfaction in their soothing reminder that he is re- 
lieved from present responsibility to the Chicken, by the 
absence of that game head of poultry in the country, 
training (at Toots’s cost) for his great mill with the 
Larkey Boy. 

But Mr. Toots takes courage, when they whisper a 
kind thought to him ; and by slow degrees and with many 
indecisive stoppages on the way, approaches Florence. 
Stammering and blushing, Mr. Toots affects amazement 
when he comes near her, and says (having followed close 
on the carriage in which she travelled, every inch of the 
way from London, loving even to be choked by the dust 
of its wheels) that he never was so surprised in all his 
life. 

“ And you’ve brought Diogenes, too, Miss Dombey ! ” 
says Mr. Toots, thrilled through and through by the 
touch of the small hand so pleasantly and frankly given 
him. 

No doubt Diogenes is there, and no doubt Mr. Toots 
has reason to observe him, for he comes straightway at 
Mr. Toots’s legs, and tumbles over himself in the des- 
peration w T ith which he makes at him, like a very dog 
of Montargis. But he is checked by his sweet mistress 

4< Down, Di, down. Don’t you remember who first 
made us friends, Di ? For shame!” 

Oh ! Well may Di lay his loving cheek against her 
hand, and run off, and run back, and nn round her. 
barking, and run headlong at anybody coming by, to 
show his devotion. Mr. Toots w’ould run headlong at 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


21 1 

anybody, too. A military gentleman goes past, and Mr. 
Toots would like nothing better than to run at him, full 
tilt. 

“ Diogenes is quite in his native air, isn’t he, Miss 
Dombey ? ” says Mr. Toots. 

Florence assents, with a grateful smile. 

“ Miss Dombey,” says Mr. Toots, “ beg your pardon, 
but if you would like to walk to Blimber’s, I — I’m going 
there.” 

Florence puts her arm in that of Mr. Toots without 
a word, and they walk away together, with Diogenes go- 
ing on before. Mr. Toots’s legs shake under him ; and 
though he is splendidly dressed, he feels misfits, and sees 
wrinkles, in the masterpieces of Burgess and Co., and 
wishes he had put on that brightest pair of boots. 

Doctor Blimber’s house, outside, has as scholastic and 
studious an air as ever ; and up there is the window 
where she used to look for the pale face, and where the 
pale face brightened when it saw her, and the wasted 
little hand waved kisses as she passed. The door is 
opened by the same weak-eyed young man, whose im- 
becility of grin at sight of Mr. Toots is feebleness of 
character personified. They are shown into the doctor’s 
study, where blind Homer and Minerva give them au- 
dience as of yore, to the sober ticking of the great clock 
in the hall ; and where the globes stand still in their 
accustomed places, as if the world were stationary too, 
and nothing in it ever perished in obedience to the uni- 
versal law, that, while it keeps it on the roll, calls every- 
thing to earth. 

And here is Doctor Blimber, with his learned legs ; 
and here is Mrs. Blimber, with her sky-blue cap ; and 
here is Corn alia, with her sandy little row of curls, and 


212 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


her bright spectacles, still working like a sexton in the 
graves of languages. Here is the table upon which he 
sat forlorn and strange, the “ new boy ” of the school 
and hither comes the distant cooing of the old boys, at 
their old lives in the old room on the old principle ! 

u Toots ! ” says Doctor Blimber, “ I am very glad to 
see you. Toots.” 

Mr. Toots chuckles in reply. 

“ Also to see you, Toots, in such good company,” says 
Doctor Blimber. 

Mr. Toots, with a scarlet visage, explains that he has 
met Miss Dombey by accident, and that Miss Dombey 
wishing, like himself, to see the old place, they have 
come together. 

“ You will like,” says Doctor Blimber, “ to step among 
our young friends, Miss Dombey, no doubt. All fellow- 
students of yours, Toots, once. I think we have no new 
disciples in our little portico, my dear,” says Doctor 
Blimber to Cornelia, “ since Mr. Toots left us.” 

“ Except Bitherstone,” returns Cornelia. 

“ Ay, truly,” says the doctor. “ Bitherstone is new to 
Mr. Toots.” 

New to Florence, too, almost; for, in the school-room, 
Bitherstone — no longer Master Bitherstone of Mrs. 
Pipchin’s — shows in collars and a neckcloth, and wears 
a watch. But Bitherstone, born beneath some Bengal 
star of ill-omen, is extremely inky ; and his lexicon has 
got so dropsical from constant reference, that it won’t 
shut, and yawns as if it really could not bear to be so 
bothered. So does Bitherstone its master, forced at 
Doctor Blimber’s highest pressure ; but in the yawn of 
Bitherstone there is malice and snarl, and he has been 
heard to say that he wishes he could catch “old Blimber” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


213 


in India. He’d precious soon find himself carried up the 
country by a few of his (Bitherstone’s) coolies, and 
handed over to the Thugs ; he can tell him that. 

Briggs is still grinding in the mill of knowledge ; and 
Toser, too ; and Johnson, too ; and all the rest ; the 
older pupils being principally engaged in forgetting, with 
prodigious labor, everything they knew when they were 
younger. All are as polite and pale as ever ; and among 
them, Mr. Feeder, B. A., with his bony hand and bristly 
head, is still hard at it : with his Herodotus stop on just 
at present, and his other barrels on a shelf behind 
him. 

A mighty sensation is created, even among these grave 
young gentlemen, by a visit from the emancipated Toots ; 
who is regarded with a kind of awe, as one who has 
passed the # Rubicon, and is pledged never to come back, 
and concerning the cut of whose clothes, and fashion of 
whose jewelry, whispers go about, behind hands; the 
bilious Bitherstone, who is not of Mr. Toots’s time, af- 
fecting to despise the latter to the smaller boys, and 
saying he knows better, and that he should like to see 
him coming that sort of thing in Bengal, where his 
mother has got an emerald belonging to him, that was 
taken out of the footstool of a rajah. Come now ! 

Bewildering emotions are awakened also by the sight 
of Florence, with whom every young gentleman imme- 
diately falls in love, again ; except, as aforesaid, the 
bilious Bitherstone, who declines to do so, out of contra- 
diction. Black jealousies of Mr. Toots arise, and Briggs 
is of opinion that he a’n’t so very old after all. But this 
disparaging insinuation is speedily made nought by Mr. 
Toots saying aloud to Mr. Feeder, B. A., “ How are you, 
Feeder?” and asking him to come and dine with him 


214 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to-day at the Bedford ; in right of which fea.s he might 
Bet up as Old Parr, if he chose, unquestioned. 

There is much shaking of hands, and much bowing, 
and a great desire on the part of each young gentleman 
to take Toots down in Miss Dombey’s good graces ; and 
then, Mr. Toots having bestowed a chuckle on his old 
desk, Florence and he withdraw with Mrs. Blimber and 
Cornelia ; and Doctor Blimber is heard to observe, be- 
hind them as he comes out last, and shuts the door, 
u Gentlemen, we will now resume our studies.” For 
that and little else is what the doctor hears the sea say, 
or has heard it saying all his life. 

Florence then steals away and goes up-stairs to the 
old bedroom with Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia ; Mr. 
Toots, who feels that neither he nor anybody else is 
wanted there, stands talking to the doctor at, the study- 
door, or rather hearing the doctor talk to him, and won- 
dering how he ever thought the study a great sanctuary, 
and the doctor, with his round turned legs, like a clerical 
pianoforte, an awful man. Florence soon comes down 
and takes leave ; Mr. Toots takes leave ; and Diogenes, 
who has been worrying the weak-eyed young man piti- 
lessly all the time, shoots out at the door, and barks a 
glad defiance down the cliff ; while ’Melia, and another 
of the doctor’s female domestics, look out of an upper 
window, laughing “ at that there Toots,” and saying of 
Miss Dombey, “ But really though, now — a’n’t she like 
her brother, only prettier ? ” 

Mr. Toots, who saw when Florence came down that 
there were tears upon her face, is desperately anxious 
and uneasy, and at first fears that he did wrong in 
proposing the visit. But he is soon relieved by her 
saying she is very glad to have been there again, and 


DOMBEY AND S<_N. 


215 


by her talking quite cheerfully about it all, as thej 
walked on by the sea. What with the voices there, 
and her sweet voice, when they come near Mr. Dom- 
bey’s house, and Mr. Toots must leave her, he is so 
enslaved that he has not a scrap of free-will left ; 
when she gives him her hand at parting, he cannot let 
it go. 

“ Miss Dombey, I beg your pardon,” says Mr. Toots, 
in a sad fluster, “ but if you would allow me to — to ” — 

The smiling and unconscious look of Florence brings 
him to a dead stop. 

“ If you would allow me to — if you would not con- 
sider it a liberty, Miss Dombey, if I was to — without 
any encouragemept at all, if I was to hope, you know,” 
says Mr. Toots. 

Florence looks at him inquiringly. 

“ Miss Dombey,” says Mr. Toots, who feels that he 
is in for it now, “ I really am in that state of adoration 
of you that I don’t know what to do with myself. I am 
the most deplorable wretch. If it wasn’t at the corner 
of the square at present, I should go down on my knees, 
and beg and entreat of you, without any encouragement 
at all, just to let me hope that I may — may think it 
possible that you ” — 

“ Oh, if you please, don’t ! ” cries Florence, for the 
moment quite alarmed and distressed. “ Oh, pray don’t, 
Mr. Toots. Stop, if you please. Don’t say any more. 
As a kindness and a favor to me, don’t.” 

Mr. Toots is dreadfully abashed, and his mouth opens. 

“ You have been so good to me,” says Florence, “ I 
am so grateful to you, I have such reason to like you 
tor being a kind friend to me, and I do like you so 
much ; ” and here the ingenuous face smiles upon him 


216 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


with the pleasantest look of honesty in the world ; “ that 
I am sure you are only going to say good-by ! ” 

“ Certainly, Miss Dombey,” says Mr. Toots, “I — I — 
that's exactly what I mean. It's of no consequence.” 

“ Good-by ! ” cries Florence. 

“ Good-by, Miss Dombey ! ” stammers Mr. Toots. “ I 
hope you won't think anything about it. It's — it's of 
no consequence, thank you. It's not of the least conse- 
quence in the world.” 

Poor Mr. Toots goes home to his hotel in a state of 
desperation, locks himself into his bedroom, flings him- 
self upon his bed, and lies there for a long time ; as if 
it were of the greatest consequence, nevertheless. But 
Mr. Feeder, B. A., is coming to dinner, which happens 
well for Mr. Toots, or there is no knowing when he 
might get up again. Mr. Toots is obliged to get up 
to receive him, and to give him hospitable entertain- 
ment. 

And the generous influence of that social virtue, hos- 
pitality (to make no mention of wine and good cheer), 
opens Mr. Toots’s heart, and warms him to conversa- 
tion. He does not tell Mr. Feeder, B. A., what passed 
at the corner of the square ; but when Mr. Feeder asks 
him “When it is to come off?” Mr. Toots replies, “that 
there are certain subjects” — which brings Mr. Feeder 
down a peg or two immediately. Mr. Toots adds, that 
he don’t know what right Blimber had to notice his 
being in Miss Dombey's company, and that if he thought 
he meant impudence by it, he’d have him out, doctor or 
no doctor; but he supposes it’s only his ignorance. Mr. 
Feeder says he has no doubt of it. , 

Mr. Feeder, however, as an intimate friend, is not 
excluded from the subject. Mr. Toots merely requires 


DOMBEY AND uON. 


217 


that it should be mentioned mysteriously, and with feel- 
ing. After a few glasses of wine, he gives Miss Dom- 
bey’s health, observing, “ Feeder, you have no idea of 
the sentiments with which I propose that toast.” Mr. 
Feeder replies, u Oh yes I have, my dear Toots ; and 
greatly they redound to your honor, old boy.” Mr. 
Feeder is then agitated by friendship, and shakes hands *, 
and says, if ever Toots wants a brother, he knows where 
to find him, either by post or parcel. Mr. Feeder like- 
wise says, that if he may advise, he would recommend 
Mr. Toots to learn the guitar, or, at least, the flute ; for 
women like music when you are paying your addresses 
to ’em, and he has found the advantage of it himself. 

This brings Mr. Feeder, B. A., to the confession that 
he has his eye upon Cornelia Blimber. He informs Mr. 
Toots that he don’t object to spectacles, and that if the 
doctor were to do the handsome thing and give up the 
business, why, there they are — provided for. He says 
it’s his opinion that when a man has made a handsome 
sum by his business, he is bound to give it up ; and that 
Cornelia would be an assistance in it which any man 
might be proud of. Mr. Toots replies by launching 
wildly out into Miss Dombey’s praises, and by insinua- 
tions that sometimes he thinks he should like to blow 
his brains out. Mr. Feeder strongly urges that it would 
be a rash attempt, and shows him, as a reconcilement to 
existence, Cornelia’s portrait, spectacles and all. 

Thus these quiet . spirits pass the evening ; and when 
it has yielded place to night, Mr. Toots walks home 
with Mr. Feeder, and parts with him at Doctor Blim- 
ber’s door. But Mr. Feeder only goes up the steps, and 
when Mr. Toots is gone, comes down again, to stroll 
upon the beach alone, and think about his prospects. 


218 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Mr. Feeder plainly hears the waves informing him, as 
he loiters along, that Doctor Blimber will give up the 
business ; and he feels a soft romantic pleasure in look- 
ing at the outside of the house, and thinking that the 
doctor will first paint it, and put it into thorough re- 
pair. 

Mr. Toots is likewise roaming up and down, outside 
the casket that contains his jewel; and in a deplorable 
condition of mind, and not unsuspected by the police, 
gazes at a window where he sees a light, and which he 
has no doubt is Florence’s. But it is not, for that is 
Mrs. Skewton’s room ; and while Florence, sleeping in 
another chamber, dreams lovingly, in the midst of the 
old scenes, and their old associations live again, the figure 
which in grim reality is substituted for the patient boy’s 
on the same theatre, once more to connect it — but how 
differently ! — with decay and death, is stretched there, 
wakeful and complaining. Ugly and haggard it lies upon 
its bed of unrest ; and by it, in the terror of her unim- 
passioned loveliness — for it has terror in the sufferer’s 
failing eyes — sits Edith. What do the waves say, in 
the stillness of the night to them ! 

“ Edith, what is that stone arm raised to strike me. 
Don’t you see it ? ” 

“ There is nothing, mother, but your fancy.” 

“ But my fancy ! Everything is my fancy. Look ! 
Is it possible that you don’t see it ! ” 

“ Indeed, mother, there is nothing. Should I sit un- 
moved, if there were any such thing there ? ” 

“ Unmoved ? ” looking wildly at her — “ it’s gone now 
. — and why are you so unmoved ? That is not my 
fancy, Edith. It turns me cold to see you sitting at my 
side.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


219 


“ I am sorry mother.” 

“ Sorry ! You seem always sorry. But it is not for 
me ! ” 

With that, she cries ; and tossing her restless head 
from side to side upon her pillow, runs on about neglect, 
and the mother she has been, and the mother the good 
old creature was, whom they met, and the cold return 
the daughters of such mothers make. In the midst of 
her incoherence, she stops, looks at her daughter, cries 
out that her wits are going, and hides her face upon 
the bed. 

Edith, in compassion, bends over her and speaks to 
her. The sick old woman clutches her round the neck, 
and says, with a look of horror, 

“ Edith ! we are going home soon ; going back. You 
mean that I shall go home again ? ” 

“Yes mother, yes.” 

“ And what he said — what’s his name, I never could 
remember names — major — that dreadful word, when 
we came away — it’s not true ? Edith ! ” with a shriek 
and a stare, “ it’s not that that is the matter with me.” 

Night after night, the light burns in the window, and 
the figure lies upon the bed, and Edith sits beside it, 
and the restless waves are calling to them both the whole 
night long. Night after night, the waves are hoarse 
with repetition of their mystery ; the dust lies piled 
upon the shore ; the sea-birds soar and hover ; the winds 
and clouds are on their trackless flight ; the white arms 
beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far 
away. 

And still the sick old woman looks into the corner, 
where the stone arm — part of a figure of some tomb, 
ghe says — is raised to strike her. At last it falls ; and 


220 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


then a dumb old woman lies upon the bed, and she is 
crooked, and shrunk up, and half of her is dead. 

Such is the figure, painted and patched for the sun to 
mock, that is drawn slowly through the crowd from day 
to day, looking, as it goes, for the good old creature who 
was such a mother, and making mouths as it peers 
among the crowed in vain. Such is the figure that is 
often wheeled down to the margin of the sea, and sta- 
tioned there ; but on which no wind can blow freshness, 
and for which the murmur of the ocean has no soothing 
word. She lies and listens to it by the hour ; but its 
speech is dark and gloomy to her, and a dread is on 
her face, and when her eyes wander over the expanse, 
they see but a broad stretch of desolation between earth 
and heaven. 

Florence she seldom sees, and when she does, is angry 
with and mows at. Edith is beside her always, and 
keeps Florence away; and Florence, in her bed at night, 
trembles at the thought of death in such a shape, and 
often wakes and listens, thinking it has come. No one 
attends on her but Edith. It is better that few eyes 
should see her ; and her daughter watches alone by the 
bedside. 

A shadow even on that shadowed face, a sharpening 
even of the sharpened features, and a thickening of the 
veil before the eyes into a pall that shuts out the dim 
world, is come. Her wandering hands upon the cov- 
erlet join feebly palm to palm, and move towards her 
daughter ; and a voice not like hers, not like any voice 
that speaks our mortal language — says “ For I nursed 
you ! ” 

Edith, without a tear, kneels down to bring her voice 
closer to the sinking head, and answers : 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


221 


“ Mother, can you hear me ? ” 

Staring wide, she tries to nod in answer. 

“ Can you recollect the night before I married ? ” 

The head is motionless, but it expresses somehow that 
she does. 

“ I told you then that I forgave your part in it, and 
prayed God to forgive my own. I told you that the 
past was at an end between us. I say so now, again. 
Kiss me, mother.” 

Edith touches the white lips, and for a moment all is 
still. A moment afterwards, her mother, with her girl- 
ish laugh, and the skeleton of the Cleopatra manner, 
rises in her bed. 

Draw the rose-colored curtains. There is something 
else upon its flight besides the wind and clouds. Draw 
the rose-colored curtains close ! 

Intelligence of the event is sent to Mr. Dombey in 
town, who waits upon Cousin Feenix (not yet able to 
make up his mind for Baden-Baden), who has just re- 
ceived it too. A good-natured creature like Cousin Fee- 
nix is the very man for a marriage or a funeral, and his 
position in the family renders it right that he should be 
consulted. 

u Dombey,” says Cousin Feenix, “ upon my soul, I am 
very much shocked to see you on such a melancholy occa- 
sion. My poor aunt ! She was a devilish lively woman.” 

Mr. Dombey replies, 4< Very much so.” 

“ And made up,” says Cousin Feenix, “ really young, 
you know, considering. I am sure, on the day of your 
marriage, I thought she was good for another twenty 
years. In point of fact, I said so to a man at Brooks’s 
— little Billy Joper — you know him, no doubt — man 
with a glass in his eye ? ” 


222 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Mr. Dombey bows a negative. “ In reference to the 
obsequies,” he hints, “ whether there is any sugges- 
tion ” — 

“ Well, upon my life,” says Cousin Feenix, stroking 
his chin, which he has just enough of hand below his 
wristbands to do ; “I really don’t know. There's a 
Mausoleum down at my place, in the park, but I’m 
afraid it’s in bad repair, and, in point of fact, in a devil 
of a state. But for being a little out at elbows, I 
should have had it put to rights ; but I believe the peo- 
ple come and make pic-nic parties there inside the iron 
railings.” 

Mr. Dombey is clear that this won’t do. 

“ There’s an uncommon good church in the village,” 
says Cousin Feenix, thoughtfully; “pure specimen of 
the Anglo-Norman style, and admirably well sketched 
too by Lady Jane Finchbury — woman with tight stays 
— but they’ve spoilt it with whitewash, I understand, and 
it’s a long journey.” 

“ Perhaps Brighton itself,”. Mr. Dombey suggests. 

“ Upon my honor, Dombey, I don’t think we could do 
better,” says Cousin Feenix. “ It’s on the spot, you see, 
and a very cheerful place.” 

“ And when,” hints Mr. Dombey, “ would it be con- 
venient ? ” 

“ I shall make a point,” says Cousin Feenix, “ of 
pledging myself for any day you think best. I shall 
have great pleasure (melancholy pleasure, of course) in 

following my poor aunt to the confines of the in 

point of fact, to the grave,” says Cousin Feenix, failing 
m the other turn of speech 

“ Would Monday do for leaving town ? ” says Mr, 
Dombey. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


223 


“ Monday would suit me to perfection,” replies Cousin 
Feenix. Therefore Mr. Dombey arranges to take Cousin 
Feenix down on that day, and presently takes his leave, 
attended to the stairs by Cousin Feenix, who says, at 
parting, “ I’m really excessively sorry, Dombey, that you 
should have so much trouble about it ; ” to which Mr. 
Dombey answers, “ Not at all.” 

At the appointed time, Cousin Feenix and Mr. Dom- 
bey meet, and go down to Brighton, and representing, in 
their two selves, all the other mourners for the deceased 
lady’s loss, attend her remains to their place of rest. 
Cousin Feenix, sitting in the mourning-coach, recognizes 
innumerable acquaintances on the road, but takes no 
other notice of them, in decorum, than checking them 
off aloud, as they go by, for Mr. Dombey’s information, 
as “ Tom Johnson. Man with cork leg, from White’s. 
What are you here, Tommy? Foley on a blood mare. 
The Smalder girls ” — and so forth. At the ceremony 
Cousin Feenix is depressed, observing, that these are 
the occasions to make a man think, in point of fact, that 
he is getting shaky ; and his eyes are really moistened, 
when it is over. But he soon recovers ; and so do the 
rest of Mrs. Skewton’s relatives and friends, of whom 
the major continually tells the club that she never did 
wrap up enough ; while the young lady with the back, 
who has so much trouble with her eyelids, says, with a 
little scream, that she must have been enormously old, 
and that she died of all kinds of horrors, and you mustn’t 
mention it. 

So Edith’s mother lies unmentioned of her dear friends, 
who are deaf to the waves that are hoarse with repetition 
of their mystery, and blind to the dust that is piled upon 
the shore, and to the white arms that are beckoning, in 


224 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the moonlight, to the invisible country far away. But 
all goes on, as it was wont, upon the margin of the un- 
known sea ; and Edith standing there alone, and listen- 
ing to its waves, has dank weed cast up at her feet, to 
strew her path in life withal. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


225 


CHAPTER XLII. 

CONFIDENTIAL AND ACCIDENTAL. 

Attired no more in Captain Cuttle’s sable slops and 
sou’-wester hat, but dressed in a substantial suit of brown 
livery, which, while it affected to be a very sober and 
demure livery indeed, was really as self-satisfied and con- 
fident a one as tailor need desire to make, Rob the 
Grinder, thus transformed as to his outer man, and all 
regardless within of the captain and the Midshipman, 
except wner. he devoted a few minutes of his leisure 
time to crowing over those inseparable worthies, and re- 
calling, with much applauding music from that brazen in- 
strument, his conscience, the triumphant manner in which 
he had disembarrassed himself of their company, now 
served his patron, Mr. Carker. Inmate of Mr. Carker’s 
house, and serving about his person, Rob kept his round 
eyes on the white teeth with fear and trembling, and felt 
that he had need to open them wider than ever. 

He could not have quaked more, through his whole 
being, before the teeth, though he had come into the ser- 
vice of some powerful enchanter, and they had been his 
strongest spells. The boy had a sense of power and 
authority in this patron of his that engrossed his whole 
attention and exacted his most implicit submission and 
obedience. He hardly considered himself safe in think- 
ing about him when he was absent, lest he should feel 
15 


VOL. III. 


22G 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


himself immediately taken by the throat again, as on the 
morning when he first became bound to him, and should 
see every one of the teeth finding him out, and taxing 
him with every fancy of his mind. Face to face with 
him, Rob had no more doubt that Mr. Carker read his 
secret thoughts, or that he could read them by the least 
exertion of his will if he were so inclined, than he had 
that Mr. Carker saw him when he looked at him. The 
ascendancy was so complete, and held him in such en- 
thralment, that, hardly daring to think at all, but with 
his mind filled w r ith a constantly dilating impression of 
his patron’s irresistible command over him, and power 
of doing anything with him, he would stand watching 
his pleasure, and trying to anticipate his orders, in a 
state of mental suspension, as to all other things. 

Rob had not informed himself perhaps — in his then 
state of mind it would have been an act of no common 
temerity to inquire — whether he yielded so completely 
to this influence in any part, because he had floating 
suspicions of his patron’s being a master of certain 
treacherous arts in which he had himself been a poor 
scholar at the Grinders’ School. But certainly Rob 
admired him, as well as feared him. Mr. Carker, per- 
haps, was better acquainted with the sources of his 
power, which lost nothing by his management of it. 

On the very night when he left the captain’s service, 
Rob, after disposing of his pigeons, and even making a 
bad bargain in his hurry, had gone straight down to Mr. 
Carker’s house, and hotly presented himself before his 
new master with a glowing face that seemed to expect 
commendation. 

“ What, scapegrace ! ” said Mr. Carker, glancing at 
his bundle. “ Have you left your situation and i;ome to 
me ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


227 


“ Oh if you please, sir,” faltered Rob, “ you said, you 
know, when I come here last ” — 

“/said.” returned Mr. Carker, “what did I say?” 

“ If you please, sir, you didn’t say nothing at all, sir,” 
returned Rob, warned by the manner of this inquiry, 
and very much disconcerted. 

His patron looked at him with a wide display of gums, 
and shaking his forefinger, observed : 

“ You’ll come to an evil end, my vagabond friend, I 
foresee. There’s ruin in store for you.” 

“ Oh if you please, don’t, sir ! ” cried Rob, with his 
legs trembling under him. “ I’m sure, sir, I only want 
to work for you, sir, and to wait upon you, sir, and to do 
faithful whatever I’m bid, sir.” 

“ You had better do faithfully whatever you are bid,” 
returned his patron, “if you have anything to do with 
me.” 

“ Yes, I know that, sir,” pleaded the submissive Rob; 
“ I’m sure of that, sir. If you’ll only be so good as try 
me, sir ! And if ever you find me out, sir, doing any- 
thing against your wishes, I give you leave to kill me.” 

“You dog!” said Mr. Carker, leaning back in his 
chair, and smiling at him serenely. “ That’s nothing to 
what I’d do to you, if you tried to deceive me.” 

“ Yes, sir,” replied the abject Grinder, “ I’m sure 
you would be down upon me dreadful, sir. I wouldn’t 
attempt for to go and do it, sir, not if I was bribed with 
golden guineas.” 

Thoroughly checked in his expectation of commenda- 
tion, the crest-fallen Grinder stood looking at his patron, 
and vainly endeavoring not to look at him, with the un- 
easiness which a cur will often manifest ir a similar 
situation. 


228 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ So you have left your old service, and come here to 
ask me to take you into mine, eh ? ” said Mr. Carker. 

“ Yes, if you please, sir,” returned Rob, who, in doing 
so, had acted on his patron’s own instructions, but dared 
not justify himself by the least insinuation to that 
effect. 

“ Well ! ” said Mr. Carker. “ You know me, boy ? ” 

“ Please, sir, yes, sir,” returned Rob, fumbling with his 
hat, and still fixed by Mr. Carker’s eye, and fruitlessly 
endeavoring to unfix himself. 

Mr. Carker nodded. “ Take care then ! ” 

Rob expressed in a number of short bows his lively 
understanding of this caution, and was bowing himself 
back to the door, greatly relieved by the prospect of 
getting on the outside of it, when his patron stopped 
him. 

“ Halloa ! ” he cried, calling him roughly back. “ You 
have been — shut that door.” 

Rob obeyed as if his life had depended on his alacrity. 

“You have been used to eavesdropping. Do you 
know what that means ? ” 

“ Listening, sir ? ” Rob hazarded, after some embar- 
rassed reflection. 

His patron nodded. “ And watching, and so forth.” 

“ I wouldn’t do such a thing here, sir,” answered Rob ; 
“upon my word and honor, I wouldn’t, sir, I wish I may 
die if I would, sir, for anything that could be promised 
to me. I should consider it as much as all the world 
was worth, to offer to do such a thing, unless I was 
ordered, sir.” 

“ You had better not. You have been used, too, tc 
babbling and tattling,” said his patron, with perfect cool- 
ness. “ Beware of that here, or you’re a lost rascal,” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


229 


and he smiled again, and again Cautioned h m with his 
forefinger. 

The Grinder’s breath came short and thick with con- 
sternation. He tried to protest the purity of his intenr 
tions, but could only stare at the smiling gentleman in a 
stupor of submission, with which the smiling gentleman 
seemed well enough satisfied, for he ordered him down- 
stairs, after observing him for some moments in silence, 
and gave him to understand that he was retained in his 
employment. 

This was the manner of Rob the Grinder’s engage- 
ment by Mr. Carker, and his awe-stricken devotion to 
that gentleman had strengthened and increased, if possi- 
ble, with every minute of his service. 

It was a service of some months’ duration, when early 
one morning, Rob opened the garden-gate to Mr. Dom- 
bey, who was come to breakfast with his master, by 
appointment. At the same moment his master himself 
came, hurrying forth to receive the distinguished guest, 
and give him welcome with all his teeth. 

“ I never thought,” said Carker, when he had assisted 
him to alight from his horse, “ to see you here, I’m sure. 
This is an extraordinary day in my calendar. No occa- 
sion is very special to a man like you, who may do any- 
thing ; but to a man like me, the case is widely different.” 

“ You have a tasteful place here, Carker,” said Mr. 
Dombey, condescending to stop upon the lawn, to look 
about him. 

“ You can afford to say so,” returned Carker. “ Thank 
you.” 

** Indeed,” said Mr. Dombey, in his lofty patronage, 
“ any one might say so. As far as it goes, it is a very 
commodious and well-arranged place — quite elegant.” 


230 


DOMBEY A TO SON. 


“ As far as it goes, truly,” returned Carker, with an 
air of disparagement. “ It wants that qualification. 
Well ! we have said enough about it ; and though you 
can afford to praise it, I thank you none the less. 
Will you walk in ? ” 

Mr. Dombey, entering the house, noticed, as he had 
reason to do, the complete arrangement of the rooms, 
and the numerous contrivances for comfort and effect 
that abounded there. Mr. Carker, in his ostentation of 
humility, received this notice with a deferential smile, 
and said he understood its delicate meaning, and appreci- 
ated it, but in truth the cottage was good enough for one 
in his position — better, perhaps, than such a man should 
occupy, poor as it was. 

“ But perhaps to you, who are so far removed, it really 
does look better than it is,” he said, with his false mouth 
distended to its fullest stretch. “ Just as monarchs im- 
agine attractions in the lives of beggars.” 

He directed a sharp glance and a sharp smile at Mr. 
Dombey as he spoke, and a sharper glance, and a sharper 
smile yet, when Mr. Dombey, drawing himself up before 
the fire, in the attitude so often copied by his second in 
command, looked round at the pictures on the walls. 
Cursorily as his cold eye wandered over them, Carker’s 
keen glance accompanied his, and kept pace with his, 
marking exactly where it went, and what it saw. As it 
rested on one picture in particular, Carker hardly seemed 
to breathe, his sidelong scrutiny was so catlike and vigi- 
lant, but the eye of his great chief,passed from that, as 
from the others, and appeared no more impressed by it 
than by the rest. 

Carker looked at it — it was the picture that re- 
sembled Edith — as if it were a living thing; and with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


231 


a wicked, silent laugh upon his face, that seemed in part 
addressed to it, though it was all derisive of the great 
man standing so unconscious beside him. Breakfast was 
soon set upon the table : and, inviting Mr. Dombey to a 
chair which had its back towards this picture, he took his 
own seat opposite to it as usual. 

Mr. Dombey was even graver than it was his custom 
to be, and quite silent. The parrot, swinging in the 
gilded hoop within her gaudy cage, attempted in vain to 
attract notice, for Carker was too observant of his visitor 
to heed her ; and the visitor, abstracted in meditation, 
looked fixedly, not to say sullenly, over his stiff neck- 
cloth, without raising his eyes from the table-cloth. As 
to Rob, who was in attendance, all his faculties and 
energies were so locked up in observation of his master, 
that he scarcely ventured to give shelter to the thought 
that the visitor was the great gentleman before whom he 
had been carried as a certificate of the family health, in 
his childhood, and to whom he had been indebted for his 
leather smalls. 

“ Allow me,” said Carker, suddenly, to ask how Mrs. 
Dombey is?” 

He leaned forward obsequiously, as he made the in- 
quiry, with his chin resting on his hand ; and at the 
same time his eyes went up to the picture, as if he 
said to it, “ Now, see, how I will lead him on ! ” 

Mr. Dombey reddened as he answered : 

“ Mrs. Dombey is quite well. You remind me, Carker, 
of some conversation that I wish to have with you.” 

“ Robin, you can leave us,” said his master, at whose 
mild tones Robin started and disappeared, with his eyes 
fixed on his patron to the last. “ You don’t remember 
that boy, of course ? ” he added, when the immeshed 
Grinder was gone. 


232 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“No,” said Mr. Dombey, with magnificent indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Not likely that a man like you would. Hardly pos- 
sible,” murmured Carker. “ But he is one of that fam- 
ily from whom you took a nurse. Perhaps you may 
remember having generously charged yourself with his 
education ? ” 

“ Is it that boy ? ” said Mr. Dombey, with a frown, 
14 He does little credit to his education, I believe.” 

u Why, he is a young rip, I am afraid,” returned Car- 
ker, with a shrug. “ He bears that character. But the 
truth is, I took him into my service because, being able 
to get no other employment, he conceived (had been 
taught at home, I dare say) that he had some sort of 
claim upon you, and was constantly trying to dog your 
heels with his petition. And although my defined and 
recognized connection with your affairs is merely of a 
business character, still I have that spontaneous interest 
in everything belonging to you, that ” — 

He stopped again, as if to discover whether he had 
led Mr. Dombey far enough yet. And again, with his 
chin resting on his hand, he leered at the picture. 

“ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, “ I am sensible that you 
do not limit your ” — 

“ Service,” suggested his smiling entertainer. 

“ No ; I prefer to say your regard,” observed Mr 
Dombey ; very sensible, as he said so, that he was pay- 
ing him a handsome and flattering compliment, “to our 
mere business relations. Your consideration for my 
feelings, hopes, and disappointments, in the little in- 
stance you have just now mentioned, is an example in 
point. I am obliged to you, Carker.” 

Mr. Carker bent his head slowly, and very softly 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


238 


rubbed his hands, as if he were afraid by any action to 
disturb the current of Mr. Dombey’s confidence. 

“ Your allusion to it is opportune,” said Mr. Dombey, 
after a little hesitation, “ for it prepares the way to what 
I was beginning to say to you, and reminds me that that 
involves no absolutely new relations between us, although 
it may involve more personal confidence on my part 
than I have hitherto” — 

“ Distinguished me with,” suggested Carker, bending 
his head again : “ I will not say to you how honored I 
am ; for a man like you well knows how much honor he 
has in his power to bestow at pleasure.” 

u Mrs. Dombey and myself,” said Mr. Dombey, pass- 
ing this compliment with august self-denial, u are not 
quite agreed upon some points. We do not appear to 
understand each other yet. Mrs. Dombey has some- 
thing to learn.” 

“ Mrs. Dombey is distinguished by many rare attrac- 
tions ; and has been accustomed, no doubt, to receive 
much adulation,” said the smooth, sleek watcher of his 
slightest look and tone. “But where there is affection, 
duty, and respect, any little mistakes engendered by 
such causes are soon set right.” 

Mr. Dombey’s thoughts instinctively flew back to the 
face that had looked at him in his wife’s dressing-room, 
when an imperious hand was stretched towards the door ; 
and remembering the affection, duty, and respect, ex- 
pressed in it, he felt the blood rush to his own face 
quite as plainly as the watchful eyes upon him saw it 
there. 

“ Mrs. Dombey and myself,” he went on to say, “ had 
some discussion, before Mrs. Skewton’s death, upon the 
causes of my dissatisfaction ; of which you will have 


234 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


formed a general understanding from having been a 
witness of what passed between Mrs. Dombey and my- 
self on the evening when you were at our — at my 
house.” 

“ When I so much regretted being present,” said the 
smiling Carker. “ Proud as a man in my position ne- 
cessarily must be of your familiar notice — though I give 
you no credit for it ; you may do anything you please 
without losing caste — and honored as I was by an early 
presentation to Mrs. Dombey, before she was made em- 
inent by bearing your name, I almost regretted that 
night, I assure you, that I had been the object of such 
especial good fortune.” 

That any man could, under any possible circumstances, 
regret the being distinguished by his condescension and 
patronage, was a moral phenomenon which Mr. Dombey 
could not comprehend. He therefore responded, with a 
considerable accession of dignity. “ Indeed ! And 
why, Carker ? ” 

“ I fear,” returned the confidential agent, “ that Mrs. 
Dombey, never very much disposed to regard me with 
favorable interest — one in my position could not expect 
that, from a lady naturally proud, and whose pride be- 
comes her so well — may not easily forgive my innocent 
part in that conversation. Your displeasure is no light 
matter, you must remember; and to be visited with it 
before a third party ” — 

“ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, arrogantly ; “ I presume 
that I am the first consideration ? ” 

“ Oh ! Can there be a doubt about it ? ” replied the 
other, with the impatience of a man admitting a noto- 
rious and incontrovertible fact. 

“ Mrs. Dombey becomes a secondary consideration, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


235 


when we are both in question, I imagine,” said Mr. Dom- 
bey. “ Is that so ? ” 

“ Is it so ? ” returned Carker. “ Do you know better 
than any one, that you have no need to ask ? ” 

“ Then I hope, Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, “ that your 
regret in the acquisition of Mrs. Dombey’s displeasure, 
may be almost counterbalanced by your satisfaction in 
retaining my confidence and good opinion.” 

“ I have the misfortune, I find,” returned Carker, “ to 
have incurred that displeasure. Mrs. Dombey has ex- 
pressed it to you ? ” 

“ Mrs. Dombey has expressed various opinions,” said 
Mr. Dombey, with majestic coldness and indifference, 
“ in which I do not participate, and which I am not in- 
clined to discuss, or to recall. I made Mrs. Dombey ac- 
quainted, some time since, as I have already told you, 
with certain points of domestic deference and submission 
on which I felt it necessary to insist. 1 failed to con- 
vince Mrs. Dombey of the expediency of her immedi- 
ately altering her conduct in those respects, with a view 
to her own peace and welfare, and my dignity ; and I 
informed Mrs. Dombey that if I should find it necessary 
to object or remonstrate again, I should express my 
opinion to her through yourself, my confidential agent.” 

Blended with the look that Carker bent upon him, was 
a devilish look at the picture over his head, that struck 
upon it like a flash of lightning. 

“ Now, Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, “ I do not hesitate 
to say to you that I will carry my point. I am not to 
be trifled with. Mrs. Dombey must understand that my 
will is law, and that I cannot allow of one exception to 
the whole rule of my life. You will have the goodness 
to undertake this charge, which, coming from me, is not 


236 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


unacceptable to you, I hope, whatever regret you may 
politely profess — for which I am obliged to you on be- 
half of Mrs. Dombey ; and you will have the goodness, 
I am persuaded, to discharge it as exactly as any other 
commission.” 

“ You know,” said Mr. Carker, “ that you have only to 
command me.” 

“ I know,” said Mr. Dombey, with a majestic indi- 
cation of assent, “ that I have only to command you. It 
is necessary that I should proceed in this. Mrs. Dom- 
bey is a lady undoubtedly highly qualified, in many re- 
spects, to ” — 

“ To do credit even to your choice,” suggested Carker, 
with a fawming show of teeth. 

“Yes ; if you please to adopt that form of words,” 
said Mr. Dombey, in his tone of state ; “ and at present 
I do not conceive that Mrs. Dombey does that credit to 
it, to which it is entitled. There is a principle of oppo- 
sition in Mrs. Dombey that must be eradicated ; that 
must be overcome : Mrs. Dombey does not appear to 
understand,” said Mr. Dombey, forcibly, “ that the idea 
of opposition to Me is monstrous and absurd.” 

“ We, in the City, know you better,” replied Carker, 
with a smile from ear to ear. 

“ You know me better,” said Mr. Dombey. “ I hope 
bo. Though, indeed, I am bound to do Mrs. Dombey 
the justice of saying, however inconsistent it may seem 
wdth her subsequent conduct (which remains unchanged), 
that on my expressing my disapprobation and determi- 
nation to her, with some severity, on the occasion to 
which I have referred, my admonition appeared to pro- 
duce a very powerful effect.” Mr. Dombey delivered 
aimself of those words with most portentous stateliness. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


237 


M I wish you to have the goodness, then, to inform Mrs. 
Dombey, Carker, from me, that I must recall our former 
conversation to her remembrance, in some surprise that 
it has not yet had its effect. That I must insist upon 
her regulating her conduct by the injunctions laid upon 
her in that conversation. That I am not satisfied with 
her conduct. That I am greatly dissatisfied with it. And 
that I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of 
making you the bearer of yet more unwelcome and ex- 
plicit communications, if she has not the good sense and 
the proper feeling to adapt herself to my wishes, as the 
first Mrs. Dombey did, and, I believe I may add, as 
any other lady in her place would.” 

“ The first Mrs. Dombey lived very happily,” said 
Carker. 

“ The first Mrs. Dombey had great good sense,” said 
Mr. Dombey, in a gentlemanly toleration of the dead, 
“ and very correct feeling.” 

“ Is Miss Dombey like her mother, do you think ? ” 
said Carker. 

Swiftly and darkly, Mr. Dombey’s face changed. His 
confidential agent eyed it keenly. 

“ I have approached a painful subject,” he said, in a 
soft regretful tone of voice, irreconcilable with his eager 
eye. “ Pray forgive me. I forget these chains of asso- 
ciation in the interest I have. Pray forgive me.” 

But for all he said, his eager eye scanned Mr. Dom- 
bey’s downcast face none the less closely ; and then it 
shot a strange triumphant look at the picture, as appeal- 
ing to it to bear witness how he led him on again, and 
what was coming. 

“ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, looking here and there 
upon the table, and speaking in a somewhat $}tered and 


238 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


more hurried voice, and with a paler lip, “ there is no 
occasion for apology. You mistake. The association is 
with the matter in hand, and not with any recollection, 
as you suppose. I do not approve of Mrs. Dombey’s 
behavior towards my daughter.” 

“ Pardon me,” said Mr. Carker, “ I don’t quite under- 
stand.” 

“ Understand then,” returned Mr. Dombey, “ that you 
may make that — that you will make that, if you please 
— matter of direct objection from me to Mrs. Dombey. 
You will please to tell her that her show of devotion for 
my daughter is disagreeable to me. It is likely to be 
noticed. It is likely to induce people to contrast Mrs. 
Dombey in her relation towards my daughter, with Mrs. 
Dombey in her relation towards myself. You will have 
the goodness to let Mrs. Dombey know, plainly, that I 
object to it ; and that I expect her to defer, immediately, 
to my objection. Mrs. Dombey may be in earnest, or 
she may be pursuing a whim, or she may be opposing 
me ; but I object to it in any case, and in every case. 
If Mrs. Dombey is in earnest, so much the less reluctant 
should she be to desist ; for she will not serve my 
daughter by any such display. If my wife has any 
superfluous gentleness, and duty over and above her 
proper submission to me, she may bestow them where 
she pleases, perhaps ; but I will have submission first ! — 
Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, checking the unusual emo- 
tion with which he had spoken, and falling into a tone 
more like that in which he was accustomed to assert his 
greatness, “ you will have the goodness not to omit or 
slur this point, but to consider it a very important part 
of your instructions.” 

Mr. Carker bowed his head, and rising from the table* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


239 


and standing thoughtfully before the fire, with his hand 
to his smooth chin, looked down at Mr. Dombey with 
the evil slyness of some monkish carving, half human 
and half brute ; or like a leering face on an old water- 
spout. Mr. Dombey, recovering his composure by de- 
grees, or cooling his emotion in his sense of having taken 
a high position, sat gradually stiffening again, and look- 
ing at the parrot as she swung to and fro, in her great 
wedding-ring. 

44 I beg your pardon,” said Carker, after a silence, sud- 
denly resuming his chair, and drawing it opposite to Mr. 
Dombey’s, 44 but let me understand. Mrs. Dombey is 
aware of the probability of your making me the organ 
of your displeasure ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Dombey. 44 I have said so.” 

“ Yes,” rejoined Carker, quickly ; 44 but why ? ” 

“ Why ! ” Mr. Dombey repeated, not without hesita- 
tion. 44 Because I told her.” 

44 Ay,” replied Carker. “ But why did you tell her ? 
You see,” he continued with a smile, and softly laying 
his velvet hand, as a cat might have laid its sheathed 
claws, on Mr. Dombey’s arm ; 44 if I perfectly understand 
what is in your mind, I am so much more likely to be 
useful, and to have the happiness of being effectually 
employed. I think I do understand. I have not the 
honor of Mrs. Dombey’s good opinion. In my position, 
I have no reason to expect it ; but I take the fact to be, 
that I have not got it?” 

44 Possibly not,” said Mr. Dombey. 

44 Consequently,” pursued Carker, 44 your making these 
communications to Mrs. Dombey through me, is sure to 
be particularly unpalatable to that lady ? ” 

44 It appears t<i me,” said Mr. Dombey, with haughty 


240 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


reserve, and yet with some embarrassment, “ that Mrs, 
Dombey’s views upon the subject form no part of it as it 
presents itself to you and me, Carker. But it may be 
so. 

“ And — pardon me — do I misconceive you,” said 
Carker, “ when I think you descry in this, a likely means 
of humbling Mrs. Dombey’s pride — I use the word as 
expressive of a quality which, kept within due bounds, 
adorns and graces a lady so distinguished for her beauty 
and accomplishments — and, not to say of punishing her, 
but of reducing her to the submission you so naturally 
and justly require?” 

“ I am not accustomed, Carker, as you know,” said 
Mr. Dombey, “ to give such close reasons for any course 
of conduct I think proper to adopt, but I will gainsay 
nothing of this. If you have any objection to found upon 
it, that is indeed another thing, and the mere statement 
that you have one will be sufficient. But I have not 
supposed, I confess, that any confidence I could intrust 
to you, would be likely to degrade you ” — 

“ Oh ! 1 degraded ! ” exclaimed Carker. “ In your 
service ! ” 

“ — or to place you,” pursued Mr. Dombey, “in a 
false position.” 

“ / in a false position ! ” exclaimed Carker. “ I shall 
be proud — delighted — to execute your trust. I could 
have wished, I own, to have given the lady at whose feet 
I would lay my humble duty and devotion — for is she 
not your wife! — no new cause of dislike; but a wish 
from you is, of course, paramount to every other corn 
sideration on earth. Besides, when Mrs. Dombey is 
converted from these little errors of judgment, incidental, 
l would presume to say, to the novelty of her situation, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


241 


( shall hope that she will perceive in the slight part T 
take, only a grain — my removed and different sphere 
gives room for little more — of the respect for you, and 
sacrifice of all considerations to you, of %hich it will be 
her pleasure and privilege to garner up a great store 
every day.” 

Mr. Dombey seemed, at the moment, again to see her 
with her hand stretched out towards the door, and again 
to hear through the mild speech of his confidential agent 
an echo of the words, “ Nothing can make us stranger to 
each other than we are henceforth ! ” But he shook off 
the fancy, and did not shake in his resolution, and said, 
“ Certainly, no doubt.” 

“ There is nothing more,” quoth Carker, drawing his 
chair back to its old place — for they had taken little 
breakfast as yet — and pausing for an answer before 
he sat cfertyn. 

“ Nothing,” said Mr. Dombey, “ but this. You will be 
good enough to observe, Carker, that no message to Mrs. 
Dombey with which you are or may be charged, admits 
of reply. You will be good enough to bring me no 
reply. Mrs. Dombey is informed that it does not be- 
come me to temporize or treat upon any matter that is 
at issue between us, and that what I say is final.” 

Mr. Carker signified his understanding of these cre- 
dentials, and they fell to breakfast with what appetite 
they might. The Grinder also, in due time, reappeared, 
keeping his eyes upon his master without a moment’s 
respite, and passing the time in a revery of worshipful 
terror. Breakfast concluded, Mr. Dombey’s horse was 
ordered out again, and Mr. Carker mounting his own, 
they rode off for the City together. 

Mr. Carker was in capital spirits, and talked much. 

VOL. III. 16 


242 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Mr. Dombey received his conversation with the sover 
eign air of a man who had a right to be talked to, and 
occasionally condescended to throw in a few words to 
carry on the conversation. So they rode on character- 
istically enough. But Mr. Dombey, in his dignity, rode 
with very long stirrups, and a very loose rein, and very 
rarely deigned to look down to see where his horse went. 
In consequence of which it happened that Mr. Dombey’s 
horse, while going at a round trot stumbled on some loose 
stones, threw him, rolled over him, and lashing out with 
his iron-shod feet, in his struggles to get up, kicked him. 

Mr. Carker, quick of eye, steady of hand, and a good 
horseman, was afoot, and had the struggling animal upon 
his legs and by the bridle, in a moment. Otherwise that 
morning’s confidence would have been Mr. Dombey’s 
last. Yet even with the flush and hurry of this action 
red upon him, he bent over his prostrate chief with 
every tooth disclosed, and muttered as he stooped down, 
“I have given good cause of offence to Mrs. Dombey 
now , if she knew it ! ” 

Mr. Dombey being insensible, and bleeding from the 
head and face, was carried by certain menders of the 
road, under Carker’s direction, to the nearest public- 
house, which was not far off, and where he was soon at- 
tended by divers surgeons, who arrived in quick succes- 
sion from all parts, and who seemed to come by some 
mysterious instinct, as vultures are said to gather about 
a camel who dies in the desert. After being at some 
pains to restore him to consciousness, these gentlemen 
examined into the nature of his injuries. One surgeon 
who lived hard by was strong for a compound fracture 
of the leg, which was the landlord’s opinion also; but 
two surgeons who’ lived at a distance, and were only in 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


243 


that neighborhood by accident, combated this opinion so 
disinterestedly, that it was decided at last that the pa- 
tient, though severely cut and bruised, had broken no 
bones but a lesser rib or so, and might be carefully taken 
home before night. His injuries being dressed and 
bandaged, which was a long operation, and he at length 
left to repose, Mr. Carker mounted his horse again, and 
rode away to carry the intelligence home. 

Crafty and cruel as his face was at the best of times, 
though it was a sufficiently fair face as to form and 
regularity of feature, it was at its worst when he set 
forth on this errand ; animated by the craft and cruelty 
of thoughts within him, suggestions of remote possibility 
rather than of design or plot, that made him ride as if 
he hunted men and women! Drawing rein at length, 
and slackening in his speed, as he came into the more 
public roads, he checked his white-legged horse into pick- 
ing his way along as usual, and hid himself beneath his 
sleek, hushed, crouching manner, and his ivory smile, as 
he best could. 

He rode direct to Mr. Dombey’s house, alighted at the 
door, and begged to see Mrs. Dombey on an affair of 
importance. The servant who showed him to Mr. Dom- 
bey’s own room, soon returned to say that it was not 
Mrs. Dombey’s hour for receiving visitors, and that he 
begged pardon for not having mentioned it before. 

Mr. Carker, who was quite prepared for a cold recep- 
tion, wrote upon a card that he must take the liberty of 
pressing for an interview, and that he would not be so 
bold as to do so, for the second time (this he underlined), 
if he were not equally sure of the occasion being suf- 
ficient for his justification. After a trifling delay, Mrs. 
Dortibey’s maid appeared, and conducted him to a morn- 


244 


DOMBE.Y AND SON. 


ing room up-stairs, where Edith and Florence were to 
gether. 

He had never thought Edith half so beautiful be- 
fore. Much as he admired the graces of her face and 
form, and freshly as they dwelt within his sensual 
remembrance, he had never thought her half so beau- 
tiful. 

Her glance fell haughtily upon him in the door-way ; 
but he looked at Florence — though only in the act of 
bending his head, as he came in — with some irrepres- 
sible expression of the new power he held ; and it was 
his triumph to see the glance droop and falter, and to 
see that Edith half rose up to receive him. 

He was very sorry, he was deeply grieved ; he couldn’t 
say with what unwillingness he came to prepare her for 
the intelligence of a very slight accident. He entreated 
Mrs. Dombey to compose herself. Upon his sacred 
word of honor, there was no cause of alarm. But Mr. 
Dombey — 

Florence uttered a sudden cry. He did not look at 
her, but at Edith. Edith composed and reassured hei 
She uttered no cry of distress. No, no. 

Mr. Dombey had met with an accident in riding. His 
horse had slipped, and he had been thrown. 

Florence wildly exclaimed that he was badly hurt ; 
that he was killed ! 

No. Upon his honor, Mr. Dombey, though stunned 
at first, was soon recovered, and though certainly hurt 
was in no kind of danger. If this were not the truth, 
tie, the distressed intruder, never could have had the 
courage to present himself before Mrs. Dombey. It was 
the truth indeed, he solemnly assured her. 

All this he said as if he were answering Edith, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


245 


cot Florence, and with his eyes and his smile fastened 
on Edith. 

He then went on to tell her where Mr. Dorabey was 
lying, and to request that a carriage might be placed at 
his disposal to bring him home. 

“ Mama,” faltered Florence in tears, “ If I might ven 
ture to go ! ” 

Mr. Carker, having his eyes on Edith when he heard 
these words, gave her a secret look and slightly shook his 
head. He saw how she battled with herself before she 
answered him with her handsome eyes, but he wrested 
the answer from her — he showed her that he would 
have it, or that he would speak and cut Florence to the 
heart — and she gave it to him. As he had looked at 
the picture in the morning, so he looked at her after- 
wards, when she turned her eyes away. 

“ I am directed to request,” he said, “ that the new 
house-keeper — Mrs. Pipchin, I think, is the name ” — 

Nothing escaped him. He saw, in an instant, that she 
was another slight of Mr.’ Dombey’s on his wife. 

— “ may be informed that Mr. Dombey wishes to have 
his bed prepared in his own apartments down-stairs, as 
he prefers those rooms to any other. I shall return to 
Mr. Dombey almost immediately. That every possible 
attention has been paid to his comfort, and that he is 
the object of every possible solicitude, I need not assure 
you, madam. Let me again say, there is no cause for 
the least alarm. Even you may be quite at ease, be- 
lieve me.” 

He bowed himself out, with his extremest show of 
deference and conciliation ; and having returned to Mr. 
Dombey’s room, and there arranged for a carriage being 
-lent after him to the City, mounted his horse again, and 


246 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


rode slowly thither. He was very thoughtful as he went 
along, and very thoughtful there, and very thoughtful in 
the carriage on his way back to the place where Mr. 
Dombey had been left. It was only when sitting by that 
gentleman’s couch that he was quite himself again, and 
conscious of his teeth. 

About the time of twilight, Mr. Dombey, grievously 
afflicted with aches and pains, w T as helped into his car* 
riage, and propped with cloaks and pillows on one side 
of it, while his confidential agent bore him company 
upon the other. As he was not to be shaken, they moved 
at little more than a foot pace ; and hence it was quite 
dark when he was brought home. Mrs. Pipchin, bitter 
and grim, and not oblivious of the Peruvian mines, as 
the establishment in general had good reason to know, 
received him at the door, and freshened the domestics 
with several little sprinklings of wordy vinegar, while 
they assisted in conveying him to his room. Mr. Carker 
remained in attendance until he was safe in bed, and 
then, as he declined to receive any female visitor, but the 
excellent Ogress who presided over his household, waited 
on Mrs. Dombey once more, ;with his report on her lord’s 
condition. 

He again found Edith alone with Florence, and he 
again addressed the whole of his soothing speech to 
Edith, as if she were a prey to the liveliest and most 
affectionate anxieties. So earnest he was in his respect- 
ful sympathy, that, on taking leave, he ventured — with 
one more glance towards Florence at the moment — to 
take her hand, and bending over it, to touch it with his 
lips. 

Edith did not withdraw the hand, nor did she strike 
bis fair face with it. despite the flush upon her cheek, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


247 


the bright light in her eyes, and the dilation of her 
whole form. But when she was alone in her own room, 
she struck it on the marble chimney-shelf, so that, at one 
blow, it was bruised, and bled ; and held it from her, 
near the shining fire, as if she could have thrust it in 
and burned it. 

Far into the night she sat alone, by the sinking blaze, 
in dark and threatening beauty, watching the murky 
shadows looming on the wall, as if her thoughts were 
tangible, and cast them there. Whatever shapes of out- 
rage and affront, and black foreshadowings of things 
that might happen, flickered, indistinct and giant-like, 
before her, one resented figure marshalled them against 
her. And that figure was her husband. 


248 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT.. 

Florence, long since awakened from her dream, 
mournfully observed the estrangement between her father 
and Edith, and saw it widen more and more, and knew 
that there was greater bitterness between them every 
day. Each day’s added knowledge deepened the shade 
upon her love and hope, roused up the old sorrow that 
had slumbered for a little time, and made it even heavier 
to bear than it had been before. 

It had been hard — how hard may none but Florence 
ever know ! — to have the natural affection of a true and 
earnest nature turned to agony ; and slight, or stern re- 
pulse, substituted for the tenderest protection and the 
dearest care. It had been hard to feel in her deep 
heart what she had felt, and never know the happiness 
of one touch of response. But it was much more hard 
to be compelled to doubt either her father or Edith, so 
affectionate and dear to her, and to think of her love 
for each of them, by turns, with fear, distrust, and 
wonder. 

Yet Florence now began to do so ; and the doing of 
it was a task imposed upon her by the very purity of 
her soul, as one she could not fly from. She saw her 
father cold and obdurate to Edith, as to her ; hard, in- 
flexible, unyielding. Could it be, she asked herself with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


249 


starting tears that her own dear mother had been made 
unhappy by such treatment, and had pined away and 
died ? Then she would think how proud and stately 
Edith was to every one but her, with what disdain she 
treated him, how distantly she kept apart from him, and 
what she had said on the night when she came home 
and quickly it would come on Florence, almost as a 
crime, that she loved one who was set in opposition to 
her father, and that her father knowing of it, must think 
of her in his solitary room as the unnatural child who 
added this wrong to the old fault, so much wept for, of 
never having won his fatherly affection from her birth. 
The next kind word from Edith, the next kind glance, 
would shake these thoughts again, and make them seem 
like black ingratitude ; for who but she had cheered the 
drooping heart of Florence, so lonely and so hurt, and 
been its best of comforters ! Thus, with her gentle na- 
ture yearning to them both, feeling the misery of both, 
and whispering doubts of her own duty to both, Flor- 
ence in her wider and expanded love, and by the side 
of Edith, endured more, than when she had hoarded up 
her undivided secret in the mournful house, and her 
beautiful mama had never dawned upon it. 

One exquisite unhappiness that would have far out- 
weighed this, Florence was spared. She never had the 
least suspicion that Edith by her tenderness for her 
widened the separation from her father, or gave him 
new cause of dislike. If Florence had conceived the 
possibility of such an effect being wrought by such a 
cause, what grief she would have felt, what sacrifice 
she would have tried to make, poor loving girl, how fast 
and sure her quiet passage might have been beneath it 
to the presence of that higher Father who does not re- 


250 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ject his children’s love, or spurn their tried and broken 
hearts, Heaven knows ! But it was otherwise, and that 
was well. 

No word was ever spoken between Florence and Edith 
now, on these subjects. Edith had said there ought to 
be between them, in that wise, a division and a silence 
like the grave itself : and Florence felt that she was 
right. 

In this state of affairs her father was brought home 
suffering and disabled : and gloomily retired to his own 
rooms, where he was tended by servants, not approached 
by Edith, and had no friend or companion but Mr. Carker, 
who withdrew near midnight. 

“ And nice company he is, Miss Floy,” said Susan 
Nipper. 44 Oh, he’s a precious piece of goods ! If ever 
he wants a character don’t let him come to me whatever 
he does, that’s all I tell him.” 

“ Dear Susan,” urged Florence, “ don’t ! ” 

“ Oh it’s very well to say 4 don’t’ Miss Floy,” returned 
the Nipper, much exasperated ; 44 but raly begging your 
pardon we’re coming to such passes that it turns all the 
blood in a person’s body into pins and needles, with their 
pints all ways. Don’t mistake me, Miss Floy, I don’t 
mean nothing again your ma-in-law who has always 
treated me as a lady should though she is rather high I 
must say, not that I have any right to object to that 
particular, but when we come to Mrs. Pipchinses and 
having them put over us and keeping guard at your 
pa’s door like crocodiles (only make us thankful that 
they lay no eggs ! ) we are growing too outrageous ! ” 

44 Papa thinks well of Mrs. Pipchin, Susan,” returned 
Florence, 44 and has a right to choose his house-keeper, 
you know. Pray don’t ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


251 


44 Well, Miss Floy,” returned the Nipper, “ when you 
say don’t, I never do I hope, but Mrs. Pipchin acts 
like early gooseberries upon me miss, and nothing 
less.” 

Susan was unusually emphatic and destitute of punc- 
tuation in her discourse on this night, which was the 
night of Mr. Dombey’s being brought home, because, 
having been sent down-stairs by Florence to inquire 
after him, she had been obliged to deliver her message 
to her mortal enemy Mrs. Pipchin ; who, without carry- 
ing it in to Mr. Dombey had taken upon herself to re- 
turn what Miss Nipper called a huffish answer, on her 
own responsibility. This, Susan Nipper construed into 
presumption on the part of that exemplary sufferer by 
the Peruvian mines, and a deed of disparagement upon 
her young lady, that w r as not to be forgiven ; and so far 
her emphatic state was special. But she had been in a 
condition of greatly increased suspicion and distrust, ever 
since the marriage ; for, like most persons of her quality 
of mind, who form a strong and sincere attachment to 
one in the different station which Florence occupied, 
Susan was very jealous, and her jealousy naturally at- 
tached to Edith, who divided her old empire, and came 
between them. Proud and glad as Susan Nipper truly 
was, that her young mistress should be advanced towards 
her proper place in the scene of her old neglect, and 
that she should have her father’s handsome wife for her 
companion and protectress, she could not relinquish any 
part of her own dominion to the handsome wife, without 
a grudge and a vague feeling of ill-will, for which she 
did not fail to find a disinterested justification in her 
sharp perception of the pride and passion of the lady’s 
character. From the background to which she had 


252 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


necessarily retired somewhat, since the marriage, Miss 
Nipper looked on, therefore, at domestic affairs in gen- 
eral, with a resolute conviction that no good would come 
of Mrs. Dorabey ; always being very careful to publish 
on all possible occasions, that she had nothing to say 
against her. 

“ Susan,” said Florence, who was sitting thoughtfully 
at her table, “ it is very late. I shall want nothing more 
to-night.” 

“ Ah, Miss Floy ! ” returned the Nipper, “ I’m sure 
I often wish for them old times when I sat up with you 
hours later than this and fell asleep through being tired 
out when you was as broad awake as spectacles, but 
you’ve ma’s-in-law to come and sit with you now, Miss 
Floy and I’m thankful for it I’m sure. I’ve not a word 
to say against ’em.” 

“ I shall not forget who was my old companion when 
I had none, Susan,” returned Florence, gently, “ never I ” 
And looking up, she put her arm round the neck of her 
humble friend, drew her face down to hers, and bidding 
her good-night, kissed it ; which so mollified Miss Nip- 
per, that she fell a-sobbing. 

u Now my dear Miss Floy,” said Susan, “ let me go 
down-stairs again and see how your pa is, I know you’re 
wretched about him, do let me go down-stairs again and 
knock at his door my own self.” 

“ No,” said Florence, “ go to bed. We shall hear 
more in the morning. I will inquire myself in the 
morning. Mama has been down, I dare say ; ” Flor- 
ence blushed, for she had no such hope ; “ or is there 
now, perhaps. Good-night ! ” 

Susan was too much softened to express her private 
opinion on the probability of Mrs. Dombey’s being in 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


253 


attendance on her husband ; and silently withdrew. 
Florence, left alone, soon hid her head upon her hands 
as she had often done in other days, and did not restrain 
the tears from coursing down her face. The misery of 
this domestic discord and unhappiness ; the withered 
hope she cherished now, if hope it could be called, of 
ever being taken to her father’s heart ; her doubts and 
fears between the two ; the yearning of her innocent 
breast to both ; the heavy disappointment and regret of 
such an end as this, to what had been a vision of bright 
hope and promise to her ; all crowded on* her mind ar.d 
made her tears flow fast. Her mother and her brother 
dead, her father unmoved towards her, Edith opposed to 
him and casting him away, but loving her, and loved by 
her, it seemed as if her affection could never prosper, 
rest where it would. That weak thought was soon 
hushed, but the thoughts in which it had arisen were 
too true and strong to be dismissed with it ; and they 
made the night desolate. 

Among such reflections there rose up, as there had 
risen up all day, the image of her father, wounded and 
in pain, alone in his own room, untended by those who 
should be nearest to him, and passing the tardy hours in 
lonely suffering. A frightened thought which made her 
start and clasp her hands — though it was not a new one 
in her mind — that he might die, and never see her or 
pronounce her name, thrilled her whole frame. In her 
agitation she thought, and trembled while she thought 
of once more stealing down-stairs, and venturing to his 
door. 

She listened at her. own. The house was quiet, and 
all the lights were out. It was a long, long time, she 
bought, since she used to make her nightly pilgrimages 


254 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


to his door ! It was a long, long time, she tried to think, 
since she had entered his room at midnight, and he had 
led her back to the stair-foot ! 

With the same child’s heart within her, as of old : 
even with the child’s sweet timid eyes and clustering 
hair: Florence as strange to her father in her early 
maiden bloom, as in her nursery time, crept down the 
staircase, listening as she went, and drew near to his 
room. No one was stirring in the house. The door was 
partly open to admit air ; and all was so still within, that 
she could hear the burning of the fire, and count the tick- 
ing of the clock that stood upon the chimney-piece. 

She looked in. In that room, the house-keeper wrapped 
in a blanket was fast asleep in an easy-chair before the 
fire. The doors between it and the next were partly 
closed, and a screen was drawn before them ; but there 
was a light there, and it shone upon the cornice of his 
bed. All was so very still that she could hear from his 
breathing that he was asleep. This gave her courage to 
pass round the screen, and look into his chamber. 

It was as great a start to come upon his sleeping face 
as if she had not expected to see it. Florence stood ar- 
rested on the spot, and if he had awakened then, must 
have remained there. 

There was a cut upon his forehead, and they had been 
wetting his hair, which lay bedabbled and entangled on 
the pillow. One of his arms, resting outside the bed, 
was bandaged up, and he was very white. But it was 
not this, that after the first quick glance, and first assur- 
ance of his sleeping quietly, held Florence rooted to 
the ground. It was something very different from this, 
and more than this, that made him look so solemn in her 
eyes. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


255 


She had never seen his face in all her life, but there 
had been upon it — or she fancied so — some disturbing 
consciousness of her. She had never seen his face in all 
her life, but hope had sunk within her, and her timid 
glance had drooped before its stern, unloving, and repel- 
ling harshness. As she looked upon it now, she saw it, 
for the first time, free from the cloud that had darkened 
her childhood. Calm, tranquil night, was reigning in its 
stead. He might have gone to sleep, for anything she 
saw there, blessing her. 

Awake, unkind father ! Awake now, sullen man ! 
The time is fining by ; the hour is coming with an an- 
gry tread. Awake ! 

There was no change upon his face ; and as she 
watched it, awfully, its motionless repose recalled the 
faces that were gone. So they looked, so would he ; so 
she, his weeping child, who should say when ! so all the 
world of love and hatred and indifference around them ! 
When that time should come, it would not be the heavier 
to him, for this that she was going to do ; and it might 
fall something lighter upon her. 

She stole close to the bed, and drawing in her breath, 
bent down, and softly kissed him on the face, and laid her 
own for one brief moment by its side, and put the arm, 
with which she dared not touch him, round about him on 
the pillow. 

Awake, doomed man, while she is near ! The time is 
flitting by ; the hour is coming with an angry tread ; its 
foot is in the house. Awake ! 

In her mind, she prayed to God to bless her father, 
and to soften him towards her, if it might be so ; and if 
not, to forgive him if he was wrong, and pardon her the 
prayer, which almost seemed impiety. And doing so, 


256 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and looking back at him with blinded eyes, and stealing 
timidly away, passed out of his room, and crossed the 
other, and was gone. 

He may sleep on now. He may sleep on while he 
may. But let him look for that slight figure when he 
wakes, and find it near him when the hour is come ! 

Sad and grieving was the heart of Florence, as she 
crept up-stairs. The quiet house had grown more dis- 
mal since she came down. The sleep she had been look- 
ing on, in the dead of night, had the solemnity to her of 
death and life in one. The secrecy and silence of her 
own proceeding made the night secret, silent, and oppres- 
sive. She felt unwilling, almost unable, to go on to her 
own chamber ; and turning into the drawing-rooms, 
where the clouded moon was shining through the blinds, 
looked out into the empty streets. 

The wind was blowing drearily. The lamps looked 
pale, and shook as if they were cold. There was a dis- 
tant glimmer of something that was not quite darkness, 
rather than of light, in the sky ; and foreboding night 
was shivering and restless, as the dying are who make a 
troubled end. Florence remembered how, as a watcher, 
by a sick bed, she had noted this bleak time, and felt its 
influence, as if in some hidden natural antipathy to it; 
and now it was. very, very gloomy. 

Her mama had not come to her room that night, which 
was one cause of her having sat late out of her bed. In 
her general uneasiness, no less than in her ardent long- 
ing to have somebody to speak to, and to break this spell 
of gloom and silence, Florence directed her steps towards 
the chamber where she slept. 

The door was not fastened within, and yielded smoothly 
to her hesitating hand. She was surprised to find a 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


257 


bright light burning; still more surprised, on looking in, 
to see that her mama, but partially undressed, was sit- 
ting near the ashes of the fire, which had crumbled and 
dropped away. Her eyes were intently bent upon the 
air ; and in their light, and in her face, and in her form, 
and in the grasp with which she held the elbows of her 
chair as if about to start up, Florence saw such fierce 
emotion that it terrified her. 

“ Mama ! ” she cried, “ what is the matter ! ” 

Edith started ; looking at her with such a strange 
dread in her face, that Florence was more frightened 
than before. 

“ Mama ! ” said Florence, hurriedly advancing. “ Dear 
mama ! what is the matter ! ” 

“ I have not been well,” said Edith, shaking, and still 
looking at her in the same strange way. “ I have had 
bad dreams, my love.” 

“ And not yet been to bed, mama ? ” 

“ No,” she returned. “ Half-waking dreams.” 

Her features gradually softened ; and suffering Flor- 
ence to come close to her, within her embrace, she said 
in a tender manner, “ But what does my bird do here ! 
What does my bird do here ! ” 

“ I have been uneasy, mama, in not seeing you to- 
night, and in not knowing how papa was ; and I ” — 
Florence stopped there, and said no more. 

“ Is it late ?” asked Edith, fondly putting back the 
curls that mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed 
upon her face. 

“ Very late. Near day.” 

“ Near day ! ” she repeated in surprise. 

“ Dear mama, what have you done to your hand ? " 
said Florence. 


VOL. III. 


17 


258 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Edith drew it suddenly away, and, for a moment, 
looked at her with the same strange dread (there was a 
sort of wild avoidance in it) as before ; but she presently 
said, 44 Nothing, nothing. A blow.” And then she said, 
44 My Florence ! ” And then her bosom heaved, and she 
was weeping passionately. 

“ Mama ! ” said Florence. 44 Oh mama, what car I do, 
what should I do, to make us happier ? Is there any- 
thing ? ” 

44 Nothing,” she replied. 

44 Are you sure of that ? Can it never be ? If I speak 
now of what is in my thoughts, in spite of what we have 
agreed,” said Florence, “you will not blame me, will 
you ? ” 

44 It is useless,” she replied, 44 useless. I have told you, 
dear, that I have had bad dreams. Nothing can change 
them, or prevent their coming back.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Florence, gazing on her 
agitated face, which seemed to darken as she looked. 

44 I have dreamed,” said Edith in a low voice, 44 of a 
pride that is all powerless for good, all powerful for evil ; 
of a pride that has been galled and goaded, through 
many shameful years, and has never recoiled, except 
upon itself; a pride that has debased its owner with the 
consciousness of deep humiliation, and never helped its 
owner boldly to resent it or avoid it, or to say, 4 This 
shall not be ! * a pride that, rightly guided, might have 
led perhaps to better things, but which, misdirected and 
perverted, like all else belonging to the same possessor, 
has been self-contempt, mere hardihood and ruin.” 

She neither looked nor spoke to Florence now, but 
went on as if she were alone. 

44 1 have dreamed * she said, 44 of such indifference and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


259 


callousness, arising from this self-contempt ; this wretch- 
ed, inefficient, miserable pride ; that it has gone on with 
listless steps even to the altar, yielding to the old, fa- 
miliar, beckoning finger, — oh mother, oh mother ! — 
while it spurned it ; and willing to be hateful to itself for 
once and for all, rather than to be stung daily in some 
new form. Mean, poor thing ! ” 

And now with gathering and darkening emotion, she 
looked as she had looked when Florence entered. 

“ And I have dreamed,” she said, “ that in a first late 
effort to achieve a purpose, it has been trodden on, and 
trodden down by a base foot, but turns and looks upon 
him. I have dreamed that it is wounded, hunted, set 
upon by dogs, but that it stands at bay, and will not 
yield ; no, that it cannot if it would ; but that it is urged 
on to hate him, rise against him, and defy him ! ” 

Her clinched hand tightened on the trembling arm she 
had in hers, and as she looked down on the alarmed and 
wondering face, her own subsided. “ Oh Florence ! ” 
she said, if I think I have been nearly mad to-night ! ” 
and humbled her proud head upon her neck, and wept 
again. 

“ Don’t leave me ! be near me ! I have no hope but 
in you ! ” These words she said a score of times. 

Soon she grew calmer, and was full of pity for the 
tears of Florence, and for her w r aking at such untimely 
hours. And the day now dawning, Edith folded her in 
her arms and laid her down upon her bed, and, not lying 
down herself, sat by her, and bade her try to sleep. 

“ For you are weary, dearest, and unhappy, and should 
rest.” 

“ I am indeed unhappy, dear mama, to-night,” said 
Florence. “ But you are weary and unhappy, too.” 


260 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Not when you lie asleep so near me, sweet.” 

They kissed each other, and Florence, worn out, 
gradually fell into a gentle slumber ; but as her eyes 
closed on the face beside her, it was so sad to think upon 
the face down-stairs, that her hand drew closer to Edith 
for some comfort ; yet, even in the act, it faltered, lest it 
should be deserting him. So, in her sleep, she tried tc 
reconcile the two together, and to show them that she 
loved them both, but could not do it, and her waking 
grief was part of her dreams. 

Edith, sitting by, looked down at the dark eyelashes 
lying wet on the flushed cheeks, and looked with gentle- 
ness and pity, for she knew the truth. But no sleep 
hung upon her own eyes. As the day came on she still 
sat watching and waking, with the placid hand in hers, 
and sometimes whispered, as she looked at the hushed 
face, “ Be near me, Florence, I have no hope but in 
you ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


2G1 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

A SEPARATION. 

With the day, though not so early as the sun, uprose 
Miss Susan Nipper. There was a heaviness in this 
young maiden’s exceedingly sharp black eyes, that abated 
somewhat of their sparkling, and suggested — which was 
not their usual character — the possibility of their being 
sometimes shut. There was likewise a swollen look 
about them, as if they had been crying overnight. But 
the Nipper, so far from being cast down, was singularly 
brisk and bold, and all her energies appeared to be 
braced up for some great feat. This was noticeable even 
in her dress, which was much more .tight and trim than 
usual ; and in occasional twitches of her head as she went 
about the house, which were mightily expressive of 
determination. 

In a word, she had formed a determination, and an 
aspiring one : it being nothing less than this — to pene- 
trate to Mr. Dombey’s presence, and have speech of that 
gentleman alone. “ I have often said I would/’ she re- 
marked, in a threatening manner, to herself, that morn- 
ing, with many twitches of her head, “ and now I will! ” 

Spurring herself on to the accomplishment of this 
desperate design, with a sharpness that was peculiar to 
herself, Susan Nipper haunted the hall and staircase 
during the whole forenoon, without finding a favorable 


26 2 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


opportunity for the assault. Not at all baffled by this 
discomfiture, which indeed had a stimulating effect, and 
put her on her mettle, she diminished nothing of her 
vigilance ; and at last discovered, towards evening, that 
her sworn foe Mrs. Pipchin, under pretence of having 
sat up all night, was dozing in her own room, and that 
Mr. Dombey was lying on his sofa, unattended. 

With a twitch — not of her head merely, this time, 
but of her whole self — the Nipper went on tiptoe to 
Mr. Dombey’s door, and knocked. “ Come in 1 ” said 
Mr. Dombey. Susan encouraged herself with a final 
twitch, and went in. 

. Mr. Dombey, who was eying the fire, gave an amazed 
look at his visitor, and raised himself a little on his arm. 
The Nipper dropped a courtesy. 

“ What do you want ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you ,” said 
Susan. 

Mr. Dombey moved his lips as if he were repeating 
the words, but he seemed so lost in astonishment at the 
presumption of the young woman as to be incapable of 
giving them utterance. 

“ I have been in your service, sir,” said Susan Nipper, 
with her usual rapidity, “ now twelve year a-waiting on 
Miss Floy my own young lady who couldn’t speak plain 
when I first come here and I was old in this house when 
Mrs. Richards was new, I may not be Meethosalem, but 
I am not a child in arms.” 

Mr. Dombey, raised upon his arm, and looking at her, 
offered no comment on this preparatory statement of 
facts. 

“ There never was a dearer or a blesseder young lady 
than is my young lady, sir,” said Susan, “ and I ought 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


263 


to know a great deal better than some for I have seen 
her in her grief and I have seen her in her joy (there’s 
not been much of it) and I have seen her with her brother 
and I have seen her in her loneliness and some have 
never seen her, and I say to some and all — I do ! ” and 
here the black-eyed shook her head, and slightly stamped 
her foot ; “ that she’s the blessedest and dearest angel is 
Miss Floy that ever drew the breath of life, the more 
that 1 was torn to pieces sir the more I’d say it though I 
may not be a Fox’s Martyr.” 

Mr. Dombey turned yet paler than his fall had made 
him, with indignation and astonishment ; and kept his 
eyes upon the speaker as if he accused them, and his 
ears too, of playing him false. 

“ No one could be anything but true and faithful to 
Miss Floy, sir,” pursued Susan, “ and I take no merit 
for my service of twelve year, for I love her — yes, I 
say to some and all I do ! ” — and here the black-eyed 
shook her head again, and slightly stamped her foot 
again, and checked a sob ; “ but true and faithful service 
gives me right to speak I hope, and speak I must and 
will now, right or wrong.” 

“ What do you mean, woman ! ” said Mr. Dombey, 
glaring at her. “How do you dare?” 

“ What I mean, sir, is to speak respectful and without 
offence, but out, and how I dare I know not but I do ! ” 
said Susan. “ Oh ! you don’t know my young lady sir 
you don’t indeed, you’d never know so little of her, if 
you did.” 

Mr. Dombey, in a fury, put his hand out for the belh 
rope ; but there was no bell-rope on that side of the fire, 
and he could not rise and cross to the other without 
assistance. The quick eye of the Nipper detected his 


264 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


helplessness immediately, and now, as she afterward* 
observed, she felt she had got him. 

“ Miss Floy,” said Susan Nipper, “ is the most de- 
voted and most patient and most dutiful and beautiful of 
daughters, there a’n’t no gentleman, no sir, though as 
great and rich as all the greatest and richest of England 
put together, but might be proud of her and would and 
ought. If he knew her value right, he’d rather lose his 
greatness and his fortune piece by piece and beg his way 
in rags from door to door, I say to some and all, he 
would ! ” cried Susan Nipper, bursting into tears, “ than 
bring the sorrow on her tender heart that I have seen it 
suffer in this house ! ” 

“ Woman,” cried Mr. Dombey, “leave the room.” 

“ Begging your pardon, not even if I am to leave the 
situation, sir,” replied the steadfast Nipper, “ in which I 
have been so many years and seen so much — although 
I hope you’d never have the heart to send me from Miss 
Floy for such a cause — will I go now till I have said 
the rest, I may not be a Indian widow sir and I am not 
and I would not so become but if I once made up my 
mind to burn myself alive, I’d do it ! And I’ve made 
my mind up to go on.” 

Which was rendered no less clear by the expression 
of Susan Nipper’s countenance, than by her words. 

“There a’n’t a person in your service, sir,” pursued 
the black-eyed, “ that has always stood more in awe of 
you than me and you may think how true it is when I 
make so bold as say that I have hundreds and hundreds 
of times thought of speaking to you and never been able 
to make my mind up to it till last night, but last night 
decided of me.” 

Mr. D< rabey, in a paroxysm of rage, made another 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


265 


grasp at the bell-rope that was not there, and, in its 
absence, pulled his hair rather than nothing. 

“I have seen/’ said Susan Nipper, “Miss Floy strive 
and strive when nothing but a child so sweet and patient 
that the best of women might have copied from her, Fvc 
seen her sitting nights together half the night through to 
help her delicate brother with his learning, Fve seen her 
helping him and watching him at other times — some 
well know when — I’ve seen her, with no encouragement 
and no help, grow up to be a lady, thank God ! that is 
the grace and pride of every company she goes in, and 
I’ve always seen her cruelly neglected and keenly feel- 
ing of it — I say to some and all, I have ! — and never 
said one word, but ordering one’s self lowly and rever- 
ently towards one’s betters, is not to be a worshipper of 
graven images, and I will and must speak ! ” 

“ Is there anybody there ! ” cried Mr. Dombey, call- 
ing out. “ Where are the men ? where are the women ! 
Is there no one there ! ” 

“ I left my dear young lady out of bed late last night,” 
said Susan, nothing checked, “ and I knew why, for you 
was ill sir and she didn’t know how ill and that was 
enough to make her wretched as I saw it did. — I may 
not be a peacock; but I have my eyes — and I sat up 
a little in my own room, thinking she might be lonesoma 
and might want me, and I saw her steal down-stairs and 
come to this door as if it was a guilty thing to look at 
her own pa, and then steal back again and go into them 
lonely drawing-rooms, a-crying so, that I could hardly 
bear to hear it. I cannot bear to hear it,” said Susan 
Nipper, wiping her black eyes, and fixing them un- 
dauntedly on Mr. Dombey’s infuriated face. “ It’s not 
the first time I have heard it, not by many and many 


266 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a time you don’t know your own daughter, sir, you 
don’t know what you’re doing, sir, I say to some and 
all,” cried Susan Nipper, in a final burst, “ that it’s a 
sinful shame ! ” 

“ Why, hoity, toity ! ” cried the voice of Mrs. Pip- 
chin, as the black bombazine garments of that fair 
Peruvian Miner swept into the room. “ What’s this, 
indeed!” 

Susan favored Mrs. Pipchin with a look she had 
invented expressly for her when they first became 
acquainted, and resigned the reply to Mr. Dombey. 

“ What’s this ! ” repeated Mr. Dombey almost foam- 
ing. “ What’s this, madam ? You who are at the 
head of this household, and bound to keep it in or- 
der, have reason to inquire. Do you know this 
woman ? ” 

“ I know very little good of her, sir,” croaked Mrs. 
Pipchin. “ How dare you come here, you hussy ? Go 
along with you ! ” 

But the inflexible Nipper, merely honoring Mrs. Pip- 
chin with another look, remained. 

“ Do you call it managing this establishment, madam,” 
said Mr. Dombey, “ to leave a person like this at lib- 
erty to come and talk to me ! A gentleman — in his 
own house — in his own room — assailed with the im- 
pertinences of women servants ! ” 

“Well sir,” returned Mrs. Pipchin, with vengeance in 
her hard gray eye, “I exceedingly deplore it: nothing 
can be more irregular ; nothing can be more out of all 
bounds and reason ; but I regret to say, sir, that this 
young woman is quite beyond control. She has been 
spoiled by Miss Dombey, and is amenable to nobody. 
You know jou’re not,” said Mrs. Pipchin, sharply, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


267 


shaking her head at Susan Nipper. “ For shame, you 
hussy ! Go along with you ! ” 

“ If you find people in my service who are not to he 
controlled, Mrs. Pipchin,” said Mr. Dombey, turning 
back towards the fire, “ you know what to do with them> 
I presume. You know what you are here for ? Take 
her away ! ” 

“ Sir, I know what to do,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin, 
“ and of course shall do it. Susan Nipper,” snapping 
her up particularly short, “ a month’s warning from this 
hour.” 

“ Oh indeed ! ” cried Susan, loftily. 

“ Yes,” returned Mrs. Pipchin, “ and don’t smile at 
me, you minx, or I’ll know the reason why ! Go along 
with you this minute ! ” 

“ I intend to go this minute, you may rely upon it,” 
said the voluble Nipper. “ I have been in this house 
waiting on my young lady a dozen year and I won’t stop 
in it one hour under notice from a person owning to the 
name of Pipchin, trust me, Mrs. P.” 

“A good riddance of bad rubbish !” said that wrath- 
ful old lady. “ Get along with you, or I’ll have you car- 
ried out ! ” 

“ My comfort is,” said Susan, looking back at Mr. 
Dombey, “that I have told a piece of truth this day 
which ought to have been told long before and can’t 
be told too often or too plain and that no amount of 
Pipchinses — I hope the number of ’em mayn’t be 
great” (here Mrs. Pipchin uttered a very sharp “Go 
along with you ! ” and Miss Nipper repeated the look) 
“ can unsay what I have said, though they gave a whole 
year full of warnings beginning at ten o’clock in the 
forenoon and never leaving off till twelve at night 


268 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and died of the exhaustion which would be a Jubi* 
lee ! ” 

With these words, Miss Nipper preceded her foe out 
of the room ; and walking up-stairs to her own apart- 
ment in great state, to the choking exasperation of the 
ireful Pipchin, sat down among her boxes and began 
to cry. 

From this soft mood she was soon aroused, with a 
very wholesome and refreshing effect, by the voice of 
Mrs. Pipchin outside the door. 

“ Does that bold-faced slut,” said the fell Pipchin, 
M intend to take her warning, or does she not ? ” 

Miss Nipper replied from within that the person 
described did not inhabit that part of the house, but that 
her name was Pipchin, and she was to be found in the 
house-keeper’s room. 

“ You saucy baggage ! ” retorted Mrs. Pipchin, rat- 
tling at the handle of the door. “ Go along with you 
this minute. Pack up your things directly ! How dare 
you talk in this way to a gentlewoman who has seen bet- 
ter days ? ” 

To which Miss Nipper rejoined from her castle, that 
she pitied the better days that had seen Mrs. Pipchin ; 
and that for her part she considered the worst days in 
the year to be about that lady’s mark, except that they 
were much too good for her. 

a But you needn’t trouble yourself to make a noise 
at my door,” said Susan Nipper, “ nor to contaminate 
the key-hole with your eye, Pm packing up and going 
you may take your affidavit.” 

The Dowager expressed her lively satisfaction at this 
fntelligence, and with some general opinions upon young 
hussies as a race, and -especially upon their demerits after 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


269 


being spoiled by Miss Dombey, withdrew to prepate the 
Nipper’s wages. Susan then bestirred herself to get 
her trunks in order, that she might take an immediate 
and dignified departure ; sobbing heartily all the time, 
as she thought of Florence. 

The object of her regret was not long in coming to 
her, for the news soon spread over the house that Susan 
Nipper had had a disturbance with Mrs. Pipchin, and 
that they had both appealed to Mr. Dombey, and that 
there had been an unprecedented piece of work in Mr. 
Dombey’s room, and that Susan was going. The latter 
part of this confused rumor, Florence found to be so 
correct, that Susan had locked the last trunk and was 
sitting upon it with her bonnet on, when she came into 
her room. 

“ Susan ! ” cried Florence. “ Going to leave me ! 
You ! ” 

“Oh for goodness gracious sake, Miss Floy,” said 
Susan sobbing, “ don’t speak a word to me or I shall 
demean myself before them Pi-i-pchinses, and I wouldn’t 
have ’em see me cry Miss Floy for worlds ! ” 

“ Susan ! ” said Florence. “ My dear girl, my old 
friend ! What shall I do without you ! Can you bear 
to go away so ? ” 

“ No-n-o-o, my darling dear Miss Floy, I can’t indeed,” 
sobbed Susan. “ But it can’t be helped, I’ve done ray 
duty, miss, I have indeed. It’s no fault of mine. I am 
quite resi-igned. I couldn’t stay my month or I could 
never leave you then my darling and I must at last as 
well as at first, don’t speak to me Miss Floy, for though 
I’m pretty firm I’m not a marble door-post, my own dear.” 

“What is it! Why is it ?” said Florence. “Won’t 
you tell me ? ” For Susan was shaking her head. 


270 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ No-n-no, my darling,” returned Susan. “ Don’t ask 
me, for I mustn’t, and whatever you do don’t put in a 
word for me to stop, for it couldn’t be and you’d only 
wrong yourself, and as God bless you my own pre- 
cious and forgive me any harm I have done, or any 
temper I have showed in all these many years ! ” 

With which entreaty, very heartily delivered, Susan 
hugged her mistress in her arms. 

“ My darling there’s a many that may come to serve 
you and be glad to serve you and who’ll serve you 
well and true,” said Susan, “ but there can’t be one 
who’ll serve you so affectionate as me or love you half 
as dearly, that’s my comfort. Go-ood-by, sweet Miss 
Floy ! ” 

“ Where will you go, Susan ? ” asked her weeping 
mistress. 

“ I’ve got a brother down in the country miss — a 
farmer in Essex,” said the heart-broken Nipper, “ that 
keeps ever so many co-o-ows and pigs and I shall go 
down there by the coach and sto-op with him, and don’t 
mind me, for I’ve got money in the Savings’ Banks my 
dear, and needn’t take another service just yet, which 
I couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t do, my heart’s own mis- 
tress ! ” Susan finished with a burst of sorrow, which 
was opportunely broken by the voice of Mrs. Pipchin 
talking down-stairs ; on hearing which, she dried her 
red and swollen eyes, and made a melancholy feint of 
calling jauntily to Mr. Towlinson to fetch a cab and 
carry down her boxes. 

Florence, pale and hurried and distressed, but with- 
held from useless interference even here, by her dread 
of causing any new division between her father and his 
wife (whose stern, indignant face had been a warning 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


271 


to her a few moments since), and by her apprehension 
of being in some way unconsciously connected already 
with the dismissal of her old servant and friend, fol- 
lowed, weeping, down-stairs to Edith’s dressing-room, 
whither Susan betook herself to make her parting cour- 
tesy. 

“ Now, here’s the cab, and here’s the boxes, get along 
with you, do ! ” said Mrs. Pipchin, presenting herself at 
the same moment. “ I beg your pardon, ma’am, but Mr. 
Dombey’s orders are imperative.” 

Edith, sitting under the hands of her maid — she was 
going out to dinner — preserved her haughty face, and 
took not the least notice. 

“ There’s your money,” said Mrs. Pipchin, who, in 
pursuance of her system, and in recollection of the 
Mines, was accustomed to rout the servants about, as 
she had routed her young Brighton boarders ; to the 
everlasting acidulation of Master Bitherstone, “ and the 
sooner this house sees your back the better.” 

Susan had no spirits even for the look that belonged 
to Mrs. Pipchin by right ; so she dropped her courtesy 
to Mrs. Dombey (who inclined her head without one 
word, and whose eye avoided every one but Florence), 
and gave one last parting hug to her young mistress, 
and received her parting embrace in return. Poof 
Susan’s face at this crisis, in the intensity of her feel- 
ings and the determined suffocation of her sobs, lest one 
should become audible and be a triumph to Mrs. Pipchin, 
presented a series of the most extraordinary physiog- 
nomical phenomena ever witnessed. 

“ I beg your pardon, miss, I’m sure,” said Towlinson, 
outside the door with the boxes, addressing Florence, 
* but Mr. Toots is in the dining-room, and sends his 


272 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


compliments, and begs to know how Diogenes and mas- 
ter is.” 

Quick as thought, Florence glided out and hastened 
down-stairs, where Mr. Toots, in the most splendid vest- 
ments, was breathing very hard with doubt and agitation 
on the subject of her coming. 

“Oh, howde do, Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots, “God 
bless my soul ! ” 

This last ejaculation was occasioned by Mr. Toots’s 
deep concern at the distress he saw in Florence’s face : 
which caused him to stop short in a fit of chuckles, and 
become an image of despair. 

“ Dear Mr. Toots,” said Florence, “ you are so friendly 
to me, and so honest, that I am sure I may ask a favor 
of you.” 

“ Miss Dombey,” returned Mr. Toots, “ if you’ll only 
name one, you’ll — you’ll give me an appetite. To 
which,” said Mr. Toots, with some sentiment, “ I have 
long been a stranger.” 

“ Susan, who is an old friend of mine, the oldest friend 
I have,” said Florence, “ is about to leave here suddenly, 
and quite alone, poor girl. She is going home, a little 
way into the country. Might I ask you to take care of 
her until she is in the coach ? ” 

“ Miss Dombey,” returned Mr. Toots, “ you really do 
me an honor and a kindness. This proof of your confi- 
dence, after the manner in which I was Beast enough to 
conduct myself at Brighton ” — 

“ Yes,” said Florence, hurriedly — “no — don’t thir.k 
of that. Then would you have the kindness to — to 
go ? and to be ready to meet her when she comes out ? 
Thank you a thousand times ! You ease my mind so 
much. She doesn’t seem so desolate. You cannot think 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


273 


how grateful I feel to you, or what a good friend I am 
sure you are !” And Florence in her earnestness thanked 
him again and again ; and Mr. Toots in his earnestness, 
hurried away — but backwards, that he might lose no 
glimpse of her. 

Florence had not the courage to go out, when she saw 
poor Susan in the hall, with Mrs. Pipchin driving her 
forth, and Diogenes jumping about her, and terrifying 
Mrs. Pipchin to the last degree by making snaps at her 
bombazine skirts, and howling with anguish at the sound 
of her voice — for the good duenna was the dearest and 
most cherished aversion of his breast. But she saw 
Susan shake hands with the servants all round, and turn 
once to look at her old home ; and she saw Diogenes 
bound out after the cab, and want to follow it, and tes- 
tify an impossibility of conviction that he had no longer 
any property in the fare ; and the door was shut, and 
the hurry over, and her tears flowed fast for the loss of 
an old friend, whom no one could replace. No one. No 
one. 

Mr. Toots, like the leal and trusty soul he was, stopped 
the cabriolet in a twinkling, and told Susan Nipper of 
his commission, at which she cried more than before. 

“ Upon my soul and body ! ” said Mr. Toots, taking 
his seat beside her, “ I feel for you. Upon my word 
and honor I think you can hardly know your own feel- 
ings better than I imagine them. 1 can conceive nothing 
more dreadful than to have to leave Miss Dombey.” 

Susan abandoned herself to her grief now, and it really 
was touching to see her. 

“ I say,” said Mr. Toots, “ now, don’t ! at least I mean 
now do, you know ! ” 

“ Do what, Mr. Toots ? ” cried Susan. 

VOL. III. 18 


274 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Why, come home to my place, and have some dinner 
before you start,” said Mr. Toots. “ My cook’s a most 
respectable woman — one of the most motherly people I 
ever saw — and she’ll be delighted to make you comfort- 
able. Her son,” said Mr. Toots, as an additional rec- 
ommendation, “ was educated in the Blue-coat School, 
and blown up in a powder-mill.” 

Susan accepting this kind offer, Mr. Toots conducted 
her to his dwelling, where they were received by the 
matron in question who fully justified his character of 
her, and by the Chicken who at first supposed, on see- 
ing a lady in the vehicle, that Mr. Dombey had been 
doubled up, agreeably to his old recommendation, and 
Miss Dombey abducted. This gentleman awakened in 
Miss Nipper some considerable astonishment; for, hav- 
ing been defeated by the Larkey boy, his visage was in 
a state of such great dilapidation, as to be hardly pre- 
sentable in society with comfort to the beholders. The 
Chicken himself attributed this punishment to his hav- 
ing had the misfortune to get into Chancery early in the 
proceedings, when he was severely fibbed by the Larkey 
one, and heavily grassed. But it appeared from the 
published records of that great contest that the Larkey 
boy had had it all his own way from the beginning, and 
that the Chicken had been tapped, and bunged, and had 
received pepper, and had been made groggy, and had 
come up piping, and had endured a complication of sim 
ilar strange inconveniences, until he had been gone into 
and finished. 

After a good repast, and much hospitality, Susan set 
out for the coach-office in another cabriolet, with Mr. 
Toots inside, as before, and the Chicken on the box* 
who, whatever distinction he conferred on the little party 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


275 


by the moral weight and heroism of his character, was 
scarcely ornamental to it, physically speaking, on account 
of his plasters ; which were numerous. But the Chicken 
had registered a vow, in secret, that he would never 
leave Mr. Toots (who was secretly pining to get rid of 
him), for any less consideration than the good-will and 
fixtures of a public-house; and being ambitious to go 
into that line and drink himself to death as soon as 
possible, he felt it his cue to make his company un- 
acceptable. 

The night-coach by which Susan was to go, was on 
the point of departure. Mr. Toots having put her in- 
side, lingered by the window, irresolutely, until the 
driver was about to mount ; when, standing on the step, 
and putting in a face that by the light of the lamp was 
anxious and confused, he said abruptly : 

“ I say, Susan ! Miss Dombey, you know ” — 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Do you think she could — you know — eh ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Toots,” said Susan, “ but I 
don’t, hear you.” 

“ Do you think she could be brought, you know — 
not exactly at once, but in time — in a long time — 
to — to love me, you know ! There ! ” said poor Mr. 
Toots. 

“ Oh dear no ! ” returned Susan, shaking her head. 
* I should say never. Ne — ver ! ” 

“ Thank’ee ! ” said Mr. Toots. “ It’s of no c >nse- 
quence. Good-night. It’s of no consequence, than) et l” 


276 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

THE TRUSTY AGENT. 

Edith went out alone that day, and returned home 
early. It was but a few minutes after ten o’clock, 
when her carriage rolled along the street in which she 
lived. 

There was the same enforced composure on her face, 
that there had been when she was dressing; and the 
wreath upon her head encircled the same cold and 
steady brow. But it would have been better to have 
seen its leaves and flowers reft into fragments by her 
passionate hand, or rendered shapeless by the fitful 
searches of a throbbing and bewildered brain for any 
resting-place, than adorning such tranquillity. So obdu- 
rate, so unapproachable, so unrelenting, one would have 
thought that nothing could soften such a woman’s nature, 
and that everything in life had hardened it. 

Arrived at her own door, she was alighting, when 
some one coming quietly from the hall, and standing 
bareheaded, offered her his arm. The servant being 
thrust aside, she had no choice but to touch it ; and she 
then knew whose arm it was. 

“ How is your patient, sir ? ” she said, with a curled 
lip. 

“ He is better,” returned Carker. “ He is doing very 
well. I have left him for the night.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


277 


She bent her head, and was passing up the staircase, 
when he followed and said, speaking at the bottom : 

“ Madam ! May I beg the favor of a minute’s au- 
dience ? ” 

She stopped and turned her eyes back. “ It is an un- 
reasonable time, sir, and I am fatigued. Is your busi- 
ness urgent ? ” 

“ It is very urgent,” returned Carker. “ As I am so 
fortunate as to have met you, let me press my petition/ 

She looked down for a moment at his glistening 
mouth; and he looked up at her, standing above him 
in her stately dress, and thought, again, how beautiful 
she was. 

“ Where is Miss Dombey ? ” she asked the servant, 
aloud. 

“In the morning room, ma’am.” 

“ Show the way there ! ” Turning her eyes again on 
the attentive gentleman at the bottom of the stairs, and 
informing him with a slight motion of her head, that he 
was at liberty to follow, she passed on. 

“ I beg your pardon ! madam ! Mrs. Dombey ! ” cried 
the soft and nimble Carker, at her side in a moment. 
“ May I be permitted to entreat that Miss Dombey is 
not present ? ” 

She confronted him, with a quick look, but with the 
same self-possession and steadiness. 

“ I w r ould spare Miss Dombey,” said Carker, in a low 
voice, “ the knowledge of what I have to say. At least, 
madam, I would leave it to you to decide whether she 
shall know of it or not. I owe that to you. It is my 
bounden duty to you. After our former interview, it 
would be monstrous in me if I did otherwise.” 

She slowly withdrew her eyes from his face, and turn- 


278 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ing to the servant, said, “ some other room.” He led 
the way to a drawing-room, which he speedily lighted 
up and then left them. While he remained, not a word 
was spoken. Edith enthroned herself upon a couch by 
the fire ; and Mr. Carker, with his hat in his hand and 
his eyes bent upon the carpet, stood before her, at some 
little distance. 

“Before I hear you, sir,” said Edith, when the door 
was closed, “ I wish you to hear me.” 

“To be addressed by Mrs. Dombey,” he returned, 
“ even in accents of unmerited reproach, is an honor I 
so greatly esteem, that although I were not her servant 
in all things, I should defer to such a wish, most 
readily.” 

“ If you are charged by the man whom you have just 
now left, sir;” Mr. Carker raised his eyes, as if he 
were going to counterfeit surprise, but she met them, 
and stopped him, if such were his intention ; “ with any 
message to me, do not attempt to deliver it, for I will not 
receive it. I need scarcely ask you if you are come on 
such an errand. I have expected you some time.” 

“ It is my misfortune,” he replied, “ to be here, wholly 
against my will, for such a purpose. Allow me to say 
that I am here for two purposes. That is one.” 

“ That one, sir,” she returned, “ is ended. Or, if you 
return to it ” — 

“ Can Mrs. Dombey believe,” said Carker, coming 
nearer, “ that I would return to it in the face of her pro- 
hibition ? Is it possible that Mrs. Dombey, having no 
regard to my unfortunate position, is so determined to 
consider me inseparable from my instructor as to do me 
great and wilful injustice ? ” 

“ Sir,” returned Edith, bending her dark gaze full 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


279 


upon him, and speaking with a rising passion that in- 
flated her proud nostril and her swelling neck, and 
stirred the delicate white down upon a robe she wore, 
thrown loosely over shoulders that could bear its snowy 
neighborhood. “ Why do you present yourself to me, 
as you have done, and speak to me of love and duty to 
my husband, and pretend to think that I am happily 
married, and that I honor him ? How dare you venture 
so to affront me, when you know — 1 do not know bet- 
ter, sir : I have seen it in your every glance, and heard 
it in your every word — that in place of affection be- 
tween us there is aversion and contempt, and that I 
despise him hardly less than I despise myself for being 
his ! Injustice ! If I had done justice to the torment 
you have made me feel, and to my sense of the insult 
you have put upon me, I should have slain you ! ” 

She had asked him why he did this. Had she not 
been blinded by her pride and wrath, and self-humilia- 
tion, — which she was, fiercely as she bent her gaze 
upon him, — she would have seen the answer in his 
face. To bring her to this declaration. 

She saw it not, and cared not whether it was there or 
no. She saw only the indignities and struggles she had 
undergone, and had to undergo, and was writhing under 
then. As she sat looking fixedly at them, rather than at 
him, she plucked the feathers from a pinion of some rare 
and beautiful bird, which hung from her wrist by a 
golden thread, to serve her as a fan, and rained them on 
the ground. 

He did not shrink beneath her gaze, but stood, until 
such outward signs of her anger as had escaped her con- 
trol subsided, with the air of a man who had his suf- 
ficient reply in reserve and would presently deliver it. 


280 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


And he then spoke, looking straight into her kindling 
eyes. 

“ Madam,” he said, “ I know, and knew before to-day, 
that I have found no favor with you ; and I knew why. 
Yes. I knew why. You have spoken so openly to me; 
l am so relieved by the possession of your confidence” — 

“ Confidence ! ” she repeated, with disdain. 

He passed it ovesr. 

— “that I will make no pretence of concealment. I 
did see from the first, that there was no affection on 
your part, for Mr. Dombey — how could it possibly exist 
between such different subjects ! And I have seen, since, 
that stronger feelings than indifference have been en- 
gendered in your breast — how could that possibly be 
otherwise, either, circumstanced as you have been. But 
was it for me to presume to avow this knowledge to you 
in so many words ? ” 

“ Was it for you, sir,” she replied, “ to feign that other 
belief, and audaciously to thrust it on me day by day ? ” 

“Madam, it was,” he eagerly retorted. “If I had 
done less, if I had done anything but that, I should not 
be speaking to you thus ; and I foresaw — who could 
better foresee, for who has had greater experience of 
Mr. Dombey than myself? — that unless your character 
should prove to be as yielding and obedient as that of 
his first submissive lady, which I did not believe ” — 

A haughty smile gave him reason to observe that he 
might repeat this. 

“ I say, which I did not believe, — the time was likely 
to come, when such an understanding as we have now 
arrived at, would be serviceable.” 

“ Serviceable to whom, sir ? ” she demanded scorn- 
fully. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


281 


“ To you. 1 will not add to myself, as warning me 
to refrain even from that limited commendation of Mr. 
Dombey, in which I can honestly indulge, in order that 
I may not have the misfortune of saying anything dis- 
tasteful to one whose aversion and contempt, ” with great 
expression, “ are so keen.”: 

“ It is honest in you, sir,” said Edith, “ to confess to 
your 6 limited commendation/ and to speak in that tone 
of disparagement, even of him : being his chief counsel- 
lor and flatterer ! ” 

“ Counsellor, — yes,” said Carker. “ Flatterer — no. 
A little reservation I fear I must confess to. But our 
interest and convenience commonly oblige many of us to 
make professions that we cannot feel. We have part- 
nerships of interest and convenience, friendships of inter- 
est and convenience, dealings of interest and convenience, 
marriages of interest and convenience, every day.” 

She bit her blood-fed lip ; but without wavering in 
the dark, stern watch she kept upon him. 

“ Madam,” said Mr. Carker, sitting down in a chair 
that was near her, with an air of the most profound and 
most considerate respect, “ why should I hesitate now, 
being altogether devoted to your service, to speak plainly ! 
It was natural that a lady endowed as you are, should 
think it feasible to change her husband’s character in 
some respects, and mould him to a better form.” 

“ It was not natural to me , sir,” she rejoined. u I had 
never any expectation or intention of that kind.” 

The proud undaunted face showed him it was resolute 
to w T ear no mask he offered, but was set upon a reckless 
disclosure of itself, indifferent to any aspect in which it 
might present itself to such as he. 

u At least it was natural,” he resumed, “ that you 


282 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


should deem it quite possible to live with Mr. Dombey 
as his wife, at once without submitting to him, and with- 
out coming into such violent collision with him. But, 
madam, you did not know Mr. Dombey (as you have 
since ascertained), when you thought that. You did not 
know how exacting and how proud he is, or how he is, if 
I may say so, the slave of his own greatness, and goes 
yoked to his own triumphal car like a beast of burden, 
with no idea on earth but that it is behind him and is to 
be drawn on, over everything and through everything.” 

His teeth gleamed through his malicious relish of this 
conceit, as he went on talking : 

“ Mr. Dombey is really capable of no more true con- 
sideration for you, madam, than for me. The comparison 
is an extreme one ; I intend it to be so; but quite just. 
Mr. Dombey, in the plenitude of his power, asked me 

— I had it from his own lips yesterday morning — to be 
his go-between to you, because he knows I am not agree- 
able to you, and because he intends that I shall be a 
punishment for your contumacy ; and besides that, be- 
cause he really does consider, that I, his paid servant, 
am an ambassador whom it is derogatory to the dignity 

— not of the lady to whom I have the happiness of 
speaking ; she has no existence in his mind — but of his 
wife, a part of himself, to receive. You may imagine 
how regardless of me, how obtuse to the possibility of my 
having any individual sentiment or opinion he is, when 
he tells me, openly, that I am so employed. You know 
how perfectly indifferent to your feelings he is, when he 
threatens you with such a messenger. As you, of 
course, have not forgotten that he did.” 

She watched him still attentively. But he watched 
her too ; and he saw that this indication of a knowledge 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


283 


on his part, of something that had passed between her 
self and her husband, rankled and smarted in her haugh- 
ty breast, like a poisoned arrow. 

“ I do not recall all this to widen the breach between 
yourself and Mr. Dombey, madam — Heaven forbid ! 
what would it profit me — but as an example of the 
hopelessness of impressing Mr. Dombey with a sense 
that anybody is to be considered when he is in question. 
We who are about him, have, in our various positions, 
done our part, I dare say, to confirm him in his way of 
thinking ; but if we had not done so, others would — or 
they would not have been about him ; and it has always 
been, from the beginning, the very staple of his life. 
Mr. Dombey has had to deal, in short, with none but 
submissive and dependent persons, who have bowed the 
knee, and bent the neck, before him. He has never 
known what it is to have angry pride and strong resent- 
ment opposed to him.” 

“ But he will know it now ! ” she seemed to say ; 
though her lips did not part, nor her eyes falter. He 
saw the soft down tremble once again, and he saw her lay 
the plumage of the beautiful bird against her bosom for 
a moment ; and he unfolded one more ring of the coil 
into which he had gathered himself. 

“ Mr. Dombey, though a most honorable gentleman,” 
he said, “ is so prone to pervert even facts to his own 
view, when he is at all opposed, in consequence of the 
warp in his mind, that he — can I give a better instance 
than this ! — he sincerely believes (you will excuse the 
folly of what I am about to say ; it not being mine) 
that his severe expression of opinion to his present wife, 
on a certain special occasion she may remember, before 
the lamented death of Mrs. Skewton, produced a wither- 
ing effect, and for the moment quite subdued her ! ” 


284 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Edith laughed. How harshly and unmusically need 
not be described. It is enough that he was glad to hear 
her. 

“ Madam,” he resumed, “ I have done with this. Your 
own opinions are so strong, and, I am persuaded, so un- 
alterable,” he repeated those words slowly and with great 
emphasis, “ that I am almost afraid to incur your dis- 
pleasure anew, when I say that in spite of these defects 
and my full knowledge of them, I have become habit- 
uated to Mr. Dombey, and esteem him. But, when I 
say so, it is not, believe me, for the mere sake of vaunt- 
ing a feeling that is so utterly at variance with your own, 
and for which you can have no sympathy ” — oh how 
distinct and plain and emphasized this was ! “ but to give 
you an assurance of the zeal with which, in this unhappy 
matter, I am yours, and the indignation with which I 
regard the part I am required to fill ! ” 

She sat as if she were afraid to take her eyes from 
his face. 

And now to unwind the last ring of the coil ! 
u It is growing late,” said Carker, after a pause, “ and 
you are, as you said, fatigued. But the second object of 
this interview, I must not forget. I must recommend 
you, I must entreat you in the most earnest manner, for 
sufficient reasons that I have, to be cautious in your 
demonstrations of regard for Miss Dombey ! ” 

“ Cautious ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ To be careful how you exhibit too much affection for 
that young lady.” 

u Too much affection, sir ! ” said Edith, knitting her 
broad brow and rising. “Who judges my affection, or 
measures it out. You ? ” 

“ It is not I who do so.” He was, or feigned to be, 
perplexed. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


28 1 


u Who then ? ” 

“ Can you not guess who then ? ” 

“ I do not choose to guess,” she answered. 

“ Madam,” he said, after a little hesitation ; meantime 
they had been, and still were, regarding each other as 
before ; “I am in a difficulty here. You have told me 
you will receive no message, and you have forbidden me 
to return to that subject ; but the two subjects are so 
closely entwined, I find, that unless you will accept this 
vague caution from one who has now the honor to possess 
your. confidence, though the way to it has been through 
your displeasure, I must violate the injunction you have 
laid upon me.” 

“ You know that you are free to do so, sir,” said Edith. 
“ Do it.” 

So pale, so trembling, so impassioned ! He had not 
miscalculated the effect, then ! 

“ His instructions were,” he said, in a low voice, “ that 
I should inform you that your demeanor towards Miss 
Dombey is not agreeable to him. That it suggests com- 
parisons to him which are not favorable to himself. 
That he desires it may be wholly changed ; and that 
if you are in earnest, he is confident it will be ; for your 
continued show of affection will not benefit its object.” 

“ That is a threat,” she said. 

“ That is a threat,” he answered in his voiceless 
manner of assent : adding aloud, “ but not directed 
igainst you .” 

Proud, erect, and dignified, as she stood confronting 
him ; and looking through him as she did, with her full 
bright flashing eye ; and smiling, as she was, with scorn 
and bitterness ; she sunk as if the ground had dropped 
beneath her, and in an instant would have fallen on the 


286 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


floor, but that he caught her in his arms. As instantane- 
ously she threw him off*, the moment that he touched 
her, and, drawing back, confronted him again, immov- 
able, with her hand stretched out. 

44 Please to leave me. Say no more to-night.” 

“ I feel the urgency of this,” said Mr. Carker, “ be- 
cause it is impossible to say what unforeseen conse- 
quences might arise, or how soon, from your being 
unacquainted with his state of mind. I understand 
Miss Dombey is concerned, now, at the dismissal of 
her old servant, which is likely to have been a minor 
consequence in itself. You don’t blame me for request- 
ing that Miss Dombey might not be present. May I 
hope so ? ” 

“I do not. Please to leave me, sir.” 

“ I knew that your regard for the young lady, which 
is very sincere and strong, I am well persuaded, would 
render it a great unhappiness to you, ever to be a prey 
to the reflection that you had injured her position and 
ruined her future hopes,” said Carker, hurriedly, but 
eagerly. 

“ No more to-night. Leave me, if you please.” 

“ I shall be here constantly in my attendance upon 
him, and in the transaction of business matters. You 
will allow me to see you again, and to consult what 
should be done, and learn your wishes ? ” 

She motioned him towards the door. 

“ I cannot even decide whether to tell him I have 
spoken to you yet; or to lead him to suppose that I 
have deferred doing so, for want of opportunity, or for 
any other reason. It will be necessary that you should 
enable me to consult with you very soon.” 

44 At any time but now,” she answered. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


287 


“ You will understand, when I wish to see you, that 
Miss Dombey is not to be present ; and that I seek an 
interview as one who has the happiness to possess your 
confidence, and who comes to render you every assist- 
ance in his power, and, perhaps, on many occasions, to 
ward off* evil from her ? ” 

Looking at him still with the same apparent dread of 
releasing him for a moment from the influence of her 
steady gaze, whatever that might be, she answered, 
“ Yes ! ” and once more bade him go. 

He bowed, as if in compliance ; but turning back, 
when he had nearly reached the door, said : 

“ I am forgiven, and have explained my fault. May 
I — for Miss Dombey’s sake, and for my own — take 
your hand before I go ? ” 

She gave him the gloved hand she had maimed last 
night. He took it in one of his, and kissed it, and with- 
drew. And when he had closed the door, he waved the 
hand with which he had taken hers, and thrust it in his 
breast. 


288 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

EECOGNIZANT AND REFLECTIVE. 

Among sundry minor alterations in Mr. Calker’s life 
and habits that began to take place at this time, none 
was more remarkable than the extraordinary diligence 
with which he applied himself to business, and the close- 
ness with which he investigated every detail that the 
affairs of the House laid open to him. Always active 
and penetrating in such matters, his lynx-eyed vigilance 
now increased twenty-fold. Not only did his weary 
watch keep pace with every present point that every day 
presented to him in some new form, but in the midst of 
these engrossing occupations he found leisure — that is, 
he made it — to review the past transactions of the Firm, 
and his share in them, during a long series of years. 
Frequently when the clerks were all gone, the offices 
dark and empty, and all similar places of business shut 
up, Mr. Carker, with the whole anatomy of the iron 
room laid bare before him, would explore the mysteries 
of books and papers, with the patient progress of a man 
who was dissecting the minutest nerves and fibres of his 
subject. Perch, the messenger, who usually remained on 
these occasions, to entertain himself with the perusal of 
the Price Current by the light of one candle, or to doze 
over the fire in the outer office, at the imminent risk 
svery moment of diving head-foremost into the coal-box, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


283 


could not withhold the tribute of his admiration from this 
zealous conduct, although it much contracted his domestic 
enjoyments ; and again, and again, expatiated to Mrs. 
Perch (now nursing twins) on the industry and acute- 
ness of their managing gentleman in the City. 

The same increased and sharp attention that Mr 
Carker bestowed on the business of the House, he ap- 
plied to his own personal affairs. Though not a partner 
in the concern — a distinction hitherto reserved solely to 
inheritors of the great name of Dombey — he was in the 
receipt of some per centage on its dealings ; and, partici- 
pating in all its facilities for the employment of money to 
advantage, was considered, by the minnows among the 
tritons of the East, a rich man. It began to be said, 
among these shrewd observers, that Jem Carker, of 
Dombey’s, was looking about him to see what he was 
worth ; and that he was calling in his money at a good 
time, like the long-headed fellow he was ; and bets were 
even offered on the Stock Exchange that Jem was going 
to marry a rich widow. 

Yet these cares did not in the least interfere with Mr. 
Carker’s watching of his chief, or with his cleanness, 
neatness, sleekness, or any cat-like quality he possessed. 
It was not so much that there was a change in him, in 
reference to any of his habits, as that the whole man was 
intensified. Everything that had been observable in him 
before, was observable now, but with a greater amount 
of concentration. He did each single thing, as if he did 
nothing else — a pretty certain indication in a man 
of that range of ability and purpose, that he is doing 
something which sharpens and keeps alive his keenest 
powers. 

The only decided alteration in him, was, that as he 
vol. in. 19 


DOMBEY AND SON 


2‘JO 

rode to and fro along the streets, he would fall into deep 
fits of musing, like that in which he had come away from 
Mr. Dombey’s house, on the morning of that gentleman’s 
disaster. At such times, he would keep clear of the 
obstacles in his way, mechanically ; and would appeal to 
see and hear nothing until arrival at his destination, or 
some sudden chance or effort roused him. 

Walking his white-legged horse thus, to the counting- 
house of Dombey and Son one day, he was as uncon- 
scious of the observation of two pairs of women’s eyes, as 
of the fascinated orbs of Rob the Grinder, who, in wait- 
ing a street’s length from the appointed place, as a dem- 
onstration of punctuality, vainly touched and retouched 
his hat to attract attention, and trotted along on foot, by 
his master’s side, prepared to hold his stirrup when he 
should alight. 

“ See where he goes ! ” cried one of these two women, 
an old creature, who stretched out her shrivelled arm to 
point him out to her companion, a young woman, who 
stood close beside her, withdrawn like herself into a 
gate-way. 

Mrs. Brown’s daughter looked out, at this bidding on 
the part of Mrs. Brown ; and there were wrath and 
vengeance in her face. 

“ I never thought to look at him again,” she said, in 
a low voice ; “ but it’s well I should, perhaps. I see. 
I see!” 

“ Not changed ! ” said the old woman, with a look of 
eager malice. 

“ He changed ! ” returned the other. “ What for ? 
What has he suffered ? There is change enough for 
twenty in me. Isn’t that enough?”. 

“ See where he goes ! ’ muttered the old woman, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


291 


watching her daughter with her red eyes ; “ so easy 
and so trim, a’ horseback, while we are in the mud ” — 
u An-d of it,” said her daughter impatiently. “ We are 
mud, underneath his horse’s feet. What should we be ? ” 
Ih the intentness with which she looked after him 
again, she made a hasty gesture with her hand when the 
old woman began to reply, as if her view could be ob- 
structed by mere sound. Her mother watching her, and 
not him, remained silent ; until her kindling glance sub- 
sided, and she drew a long breath, as if in the relief of 
his being gone. 

“ Deary ! ” said the old woman then. “ Alice ! Hand- 
some gal ! Ally ! ” She gently shook her sleeve to 
arouse her attention. “ Will you let him go like that, 
when you can wring money from him. Why, it’s a 
wickedness, my daughter.” 

“ Haven’t I told you, that I will not have money from 
him ? ” she returned. “ And don’t you yet believe mtj ? 
Did I take his sister’s money ? Would I touch a penny, 
if I knew it, that had gone through his white hands — 
unless, it was, indeed, that I could poison it, and send it 
back to him ? Peace, mother, and come away.” 

u And him so rich ? ” murmured the old woman. 
u And us so poor ! ” 

“ Poor in not being able to pay him any of the harm 
we owe him,” returned her daughter. “ Let him give 
me that sort of riches, and I’ll take them from him and 
use them. Come away. It’s no good looking at his 
horse. Come away, mother ! ” 

But the old woman, for whom the spectacle of Rob the 
Grinder returning down the street, leading the riderless 
horse, appeared to have some extraneous interest that it 
did not possess in itself, surveyed that young man with 


292 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the utmost earnestness ; and seeming to have whatever 
doubts she entertained, resolved as he drew nearer, 
glanced at her daughter with brightened eyes and with 
her finger on her lip, and emerging from the gate-way at 
the moment of his passing, touched him on the shoulder. 

u Why, where’s my sprightly Rob been, all this time 1 
she said, as he turned round. 

The sprightly Rob, whose sprightliness was very much 
diminished by the salutation, looked exceedingly dis- 
mayed, and said, with the water rising in his eyes : 

“ Oh ! why can’t you leave a poor cove alone, Misses 
Brown, when he’s getting an honest livelihood and con- 
ducting himself respectable ? What do you come and 
deprive a cove of his character for, by talking to him 
in the streets, when he’s taking his master’s horse to a 
honest stable — a horse you’d go and sell for cats’ and 
dogs’ meat if you had your way! Why, I thought,” said 
tfye Grinder, producing his concluding remark as if it 
were the climax of all his injuries, “ that you was dead 
long ago ! ” 

“ This is the way,” cried the old woman, appealing to 
her daughter, “ that he talks to me, who knew him weeks 
and months together, my deary, and have stood his friend 
many and many a time among the pigeon-fancying tramps 
and bird-catchers.” 

“ Let the birds be, will you, Misses Brown ? ” retorted 
Rob, in a tone of the acutest anguish. “ I think a cove 
had better have to do with lions than them little creeturs, 
for they’re always flying back in your face when you 
least expect it. Well, how d’ye do and what do you 
want ! ” These polite inquiries the Grinder uttered, as 
*t were under protest, and with great exasperation and 
vindictiveness. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


293 


“ Hark how he speaks to an old friend, my deary ! ” 
said Mrs. Brown, again appealing to her daughter. 
“ But there’s some of his old friends not so patient as 
me. If I was to tell some that he knows, and has sported 
and cheated with, where to find him ” — 

“ Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown ? ” inter- 
rupted the miserable Grinder, glancing quickly round, 
as though he expected to see his masters teeth shining 
at his elbow. “ What do you take a pleasure in ruining 
a cove for ? At your time of life too ! when you ought 
to be thinking of a variety of things ! ” 

“ What a gallant horse ! ” said the old woman, patting 
the animal’s neck. 

“ Let him alone, will you, Misses Brown ? ” cried Rob, 
pushing away her hand. “You’re enough to drive a 
penitent cove mad ! ” 

“ Why, what hurt do I do him, child ? ” returned the 
old woman. 

“ Hurt ? ” said Rob. “ He’s got a master that would 
find it out if lie was touched with a straw.” And he 
blew upon the place where the old woman’s hand had 
rested for a moment, and smoothed it gently with his fin- 
ger, as if he seriously believed what he said. 

The old woman looking back to mumble and mouth 
at her daughter, who followed, kept close to Rob’s heels 
as he walked on with the bridle in his hand ; and pur- 
sued the conversation. 

“ A good place, Rob, eh ? ” said she. “ You’re in 
luck, my child.” 

“ Oh don’t talk about luck, Misses Brown,” returned 
the wretched Grinder, facing round and stopping. “ If 
you’d never come, or if you’d go away, then indeed a 
cove might be considered tolerable lucky. Can’t you go 


294 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


along, Misses Brown, and not foller me! ” blubbered Rob, 
with sudden defiance. “ If the young woman’s a friend 
of yours, why don’t she take you away, instead of letting 
you make yourself so disgraceful ! ” 

u What ! ” croaked the old woman, putting her face 
close to his, with a malevolent grin upon it that puck- 
ered up the loose skin down in her very throat. “ Do 
you deny your old chum ! Have you lurked to my 
house fifty times, and slept sound in a corner when you 
had no other bed but the paving-stones, and do you talk 
to me like this ! Have I bought and sold with you, and 
helped you in my way of business, school-boy, sneak, 
and what not, and do you tell me to go along ? Could 
I raise a crowd of old company about you to-morrow 
morning, that would follow you to ruin like copies of 
your own shadow, and do you turn on me with your 
bold looks ! I’ll go. Come Alice.” 

“ Stop, Misses Brown ! ” cried the distracted Grinder. 
“What are you doing of? Don’t put yourself in a 
passion ! Don’t let her go, if you please. I haven’t 
meant any offence. I said 4 how d’ye do,’ at first, didn’t 
I ? But you wouldn’t answer. How do you do ? Be- 
sides,” said Rob piteously, “ look here ! How can a 
cove stand talking in the street with his master’s prad 
a-wanting to be took to be rubbed down, and his master 
up to every individgle thing that happens ? ” 

The old woman made a show of being partially ap- 
peased, but shook her head, and mouthed and muttered 
still. 

“ Come along to the stables, and have a glass of 
something that’s good for you, Misses Brown, can’t 
you ? ” said Rob, “ instead of going on, like that, which 
is no good to you, nor anybody else ? Come along 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


295 


with her, will you be so kind ? ” said Rob. “ I’m 

sure I’m delighted to see her, if it wasn’t for the 

horse ! ” 

With this apology, Rob turned away, a rueful picture 
of despair, and walked his charge down a by-street. 

The old woman, mouthing at her daughter, followed 

close upon him. The daughter followed. 

Turning into a silent little square or court-yard that 
had ft great church-tower rising above it, and a packer’s 
warehouse, and a bottle-maker’s warehouse, for its places 
of business, Rob the Grinder delivered the white-legged 
horse to the hostler of a quaint stable at the corner ; and 
inviting Mrs. Brown and her daughter to seat themselves 
upon a stone bench at the gate of that establishment, 
soon reappeared from a neighboring public-house with a 
pewter measure and a glass. 

“ Here’s master — Mr. Carker, child ! ” said the old 
woman, slowly, as her sentiment before drinking. “Lord 
bless him ! ” • 

“ Why, I didn’t tell you who he was,” observed Rob, 
with staring eyes. 

“ We know him by sight,” said Mrs. Brown, whose 
working mouth and nodding head, stopped for the mo- 
ment, in the fixedness of her attention. “We saw him 
pass this morning, afore he got off his horse ; when you 
were ready to take it.” 

“ Ay, ay ? ” returned Rob, appearing to wish that his 
readiness had carried him to any other place. — “ What’s 
the matter with her ? Won’t she drink ? ” 

This inquiry had reference to Alice, who, folded in her 
cloak, sat a little apart profoundly inattentive to his offer 
&f the replenished glass. 

The old woman shook her head. “ Don’t mind her,” 


296 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


she said ; “ she’s a strange creetur, if you know’d her, 
Rob. But Mr. Carker ” — 

“ Hush ! ” said Rob, glancing cautiously up at the 
packer’s, and at the bottle-maker’s, as if, from any one 
of the tiers of warehouses, Mr. Carker might be looking 
down. “ Softly.” 

“ Why, he a’n’t here ! ” cried Mrs. Brown. 

“ I don’t know that,” muttered Rob, whose glance even 
wandered to the church-tower, as if he might be there, 
with a supernatural power of hearing. 

“ Good master ? ” inquired Mrs. Brown. 

Rob nodded ; and added, in a low voice, u precious 
sharp.” 

“ Lives out of town, don’t he, lovey ? ” said the old 
woman. 

“ When he’s at home,” returned Rob ; “ but we don’t 
live at home just now.” 

“ Where then ? ” asked the old woman. 

“ Lodgings*; up near Mr. Dombey’s,” returned Rob. 

The younger woman fixed her eyes so searchingly 
upon him, and so suddenly, that Rob was quite con- 
founded, and offered the glass again, but with no more 
effect upon her than before. 

“ Mr. Dombey — you and I used to talk about him, 
sometimes, you know,” said Rob to Mrs. Brown. “ You 
used to get me to talk about him.” 

The old woman nodded. 

“ Well, Mr. Dombey, he’s had a fall from his horse,” 
said Rob, unwillingly ; “ and my master has to be up 
there, more than usual, either with him, or Mrs. Dom- 
bey, or some of ’em ; and so we’ve come to town.” 

“ Are they good friends, lovey ? ” asked the old 
woman. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


297 


“Who? ' retorted Rob. 

“ He and she ? ” 

“ What, Mr. and Mrs. Dombey ? ” said Rob. “ How 
should I know ! 99 

“ Not them — Master and Mrs. Dombey, chick,” re- 
plied the old woman, coaxingly. 

“ I don’t know,” said Rob, looking round him again. 
“ I suppose so. How curious you are, Misses Brown 
Least said, soonest mended.” 

u Why there’s no harm in it ! 99 exclaimed the old 
woman, with a laugh and a clap of her hands. “ Spright- 
ly Rob has grown tame since he has been well off! 
There’s no harm in it.” 

“ No, there’s no harm in it, I know,” returned Rob, 
with the same distrustful glance at the packer’s and the 
bottle-maker’s, and the church ; “ but blabbing, if it’s 
only about the number of buttons on my master’s coat, 
won’t do. I tell you it won’t do with him. A cove had 
better drown himself. He says so. I shouldn’t have 
so much as told you what his name was, if you hadn’t 
known it. Talk about somebody else.” 

As Rob took another cautious survey of the yard, tiie 
old woman made a secret motion to her daughter. It 
was momentary, but the daughter, with a slight look of 
intelligence, withdrew her eyes from the boy’s face, and 
sat folded in her cloak as before. 

“ Rob, lovey ! ” said the old woman, beckoning him to 
the other end of the bench. “ You were always a pet 
and favorite of mine. Now, weren’t you ? Don’t you 
know you were ? ” 

“ Yes, Misses Brown,” replied the Grinder, with a 
very bad grace. 

“And you could leave me!” said the old woman, 


298 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


flinging her arms about his neck. “ You could go away, 
and grow almost out of knowledge, and never come to 
tell your poor old friend how fortunate you were, proud 
lad ! Oho, oho ! ” 

“ Oh here’s a dreadful go for a cove that’s got a 
master wide awake in the neighborhood ! ” exclaimed 
the wretched Grinder. “ To be howled over like this 
here ! ” 

“ Won’t you come and see me, Robby ? ” cried Mrs. 
Brown. “ Oho, won’t you ever come and see me ? ” 

“ Yes, I tell you ! Yes, I will ! ” returned the Grin- 
der. 

“ That’s my own Rob ! That’s my lovey ! ” said Mrs. 
Brown, drying the tears upon her shrivelled face, and 
giving him a tender squeeze. “At the old place, Rob?” 

“ Yes,” replied the Grinder. 

“ Soon, Robby, dear ? ” cried Mrs. Brown ; “ and 
often ? ” 

“ Yes. Yes. Yes,” replied Rob. “ I will indeed, 
upon my soul and body.” 

“ And then,” said Mrs. Brown, with her arms uplifted 
towards the sky, and her head thrown back and shaking, 
u if he’s true to his word, I’ll never come a-near him, 
though I know where he is, and never breathe a syllable 
about him ! Never ! ” 

This ejaculation seemed a drop of comfort to the 
miserable Grinder, who shook Mrs. Brown by the hand 
upon it, and implored her with tears in his eyes, to leave 
a cove, and not destroy his prospects. Mrs. Brown, 
w ith another fond embrace, assented ; but in the act of 
following her daughter, turned back, with her finger 
stealthily raised, and asked in a hoarse whisper for 
some money. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


299 


A shilling, dear ! ” she said, with her eager, avari- 
cious face, “ or sixpence ! For old acquaintance’ sake. 
I’m so poor. And my handsome gal ” — looking over 
her shoulder — “ she’s my gal, Rob — half starves me.” 

But as the reluctant Grinder put it in her hand, her 
daughter, coming quietly back, caught the hand in hers 
and twisted out the coin. 

“ What,” she said, “ mother ! always money ! money 
from the first, and to the last. Do you mind so little 
what I said but now ? Here. Take it ! ” 

The old woman uttered a moan as the money was 
restored, but without in any other way opposing its — 
restoration, hobbled at her daughter’s side out of the 
yard, and along the by-street upon which it opened. 
The astonished and dismayed Rob staring after them, 
saw that they stopped, and fell to earnest conversation 
very soon ; and more than once observed a darkly 
threatening action of the younger woman’s hand (ob- 
viously having reference to some one of whom they 
spoke), and a crooning feeble imitation of it on the part 
of Mrs. Brown, that made him earnestly hope he might 
not be the subject of their discourse. 

With the present consolation that they were gone, and 
with the prospective comfort that Mrs. Brown could not 
live forever, and was not likely to live long to trouble 
him, the Grinder, not otherwise regretting his misdeeds 
than as they were attended with such disagreeable inci- 
dental consequences, composed his ruffled features to a 
more serene expression by thinking of the admirable 
manner in which he had disposed of Captain Cuttle (a 
"eflection that seldom failed to put him in a flow of 
spirits), and went to the Dombey counting-house to re- 
ceive his master’s orders. 


300 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


There his master so subtle and vigilant of eye, that 
Rob quaked before him, more than half expecting to be 
taxed with Mrs. Brown, gave him the usual morning’s box 
of papers for Mr. Dombey, and a note for Mrs. Dombey : 
merely nodding his head as an enjoinder to be careful, 
and to use despatch — a mysterious admonition, fraught 
in the Grinder’s imagination with dismal warnings and 
threats ; and more powerful with him than any words. 

Alone again, in his own room, Mr. Carker applied 
himself to work, and worked all day. He saw many 
visitors ; overlooked a number of documents ; went in 
and out, to and from, sundry places of mercantile resort ; 
and indulged in no more abstraction until the day’s busi- 
ness was done. But, when the usual clearance of papers 
from his table was made at last, he fell into his thought- 
ful mood once more. 

He was standing in his accustomed place and attitude, 
with his eyes intently fixed upon the ground, when his 
brother entered to bring back some letters that had been 
taken out in the course of the day. He put them quietly 
on the table, and was going immediately, when Mr. Car- 
ker the manager, whose eyes had rested on him on his 
entrance, as if they had all this time had him for the 
subject for their contemplation, instead of the office-floor, 
said : 

“ Well, John Carker, and what brings you here ? ” 

His brother pointed to the letters, and was again with- 
drawing. 

“ I wonder,” said the manager, “ that you can come 
and go, without inquiring how our master is.” 

“We had word this morning, in the counting-house, 
that Mr. Dombey was doing well,” replied his brother. 

“ You are such a meek fellow,” said the manager with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


301 


a smile — “ but you have grown so, in the course of 
years — that if any harm came to him, you’d be misera- 
ble, I dare swear now.” 

“ I should be truly sorry, James,” returned the other. 

“ He would be sorry ! ” said the manager, pointing at 
him, as if there were some other person present to whom 
he was appealing. “ He would be truly sorry ! This 
brother of mine ! This junior of the place, this slighted 
piece of lumber, pushed aside with his face to the wall, 
like a rotten picture, and left so, for Heaven knows how 
many years ; he's all gratitude and respect, and devotion 
too, he would have me believe ! ” 

“ I would have you believe nothing, James,” returned 
the other. “ Be as just to me as you would to any other 
man below you. You ask a question, and I answer it.” 

“ And have you nothing, spaniel,” said the manager, 
with unusual irascibility, “ to complain of in him ? No 
proud treatment to resent, no insolence, no foolery of 
state, no exaction of any sort ! What the devil ! are you 
man or mouse ? ” 

“ It would be strange if any two persons could be to- 
gether for so many years, especially as superior and in- 
ferior, without each having something to complain of in 
the other — as he thought, at all events,” replied John 
Carker. “ But apart from my history here ” — 

“ His history here ! ” exclaimed the manager. u Why, 
there it is. The very fact that makes him an extreme 
case, puts him out of the whole chapter ! Well ? ” 

“ Apart from that, which, as you hint, gives me a rea 
son to be thankful that I alone (happily for all the rest) 
possess, surely there is no one in the house who would 
oot say and feel at least as much. You do not think 
that anybody here would be indifferent to a mischance 


302 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


or misfortune happening to the head of the House, or 
anything than truly sorry for it ? ” 

“ You have good reason to be bound to him too ! ” 
said the manager, contemptuously. “ Why, don’t you 
believe that you are kept here, as a cheap example, and 
a famous instance of the clemency of Dombey and Son, 
redounding to the credit of the illustrious House?” 

“No,” replied his brother mildly, “I have long be- 
lieved that I am kept here for more kind and disinter- 
ested reasons.” 

“ But you were going,” said the manager, with the 
snarl of a tiger-cat, “ to recite some Christian precept, I 
observed.” 

“Nay, James,” returned the other, “though the tie of 
brotherhood between us has been long broken and thrown 
away ” — 

“ Who broke it, good sir ? ” said the manager. 

“ I, by my misconduct. I do not charge it upon you.” 

The manager replied, with that mute action of his 
bristling mouth, “ Oh, you don’t charge it upon me ! ” 
and bade him go on. 

“ I say, though there is not that tie between us, do 
not, I entreat, assail me with unnecessary taunts, or mis- 
interpret what I say, or would say. I was only going to 
suggest to you that it would be a mistake to suppose that 
it is only you, who have been selected here, above all 
others, for advancement, confidence, and distinction (se- 
lected, in the beginning, I know, for your great ability 
and trustfulness), and who communicate more freely 
with Mr. Dombey than any one, and stand, it may be 
said, on equal terms with him, and have been favored 
and enriched by him — that it would be a mistake to 
suppose that it is only you who are tender of his welfare 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


303 


and reputation. There is no one in the house, from 
yourself down to the lowest, I sincerely believe, who does 
not participate in that feeling.” 

“ You lie,” said the Manager, red with sudden anger. 
u You’re a hypocrite, John Carker, and you lie ! ” 

“ James ! ” cried the other, flushing in his turn. 
“What do you mean by these insulting words? Why 
do you so basely use them to me, unprovoked ? * 

“ I tell you,” said the manager, “ that your hypocrisy 
and meekness — that all the hypocrisy and meekness of 
this place — is not worth that to me,” snapping his thumb 
and finger, “ and that I see through it as if it were air ! 
There is not a man employed here, standing between 
myself and the lowest in place (of whom you are very 
considerate, and with reason, for he is not far off), who 
wouldn’t be glad at heart to see his master humbled: 
who does not hate him, secretly : who does not wish 
him evil rather than^ good : and who would not turn 
upon him, if he had the power and boldness. The 
nearer to his favor, the nearer to his insolence ; the 
closer to him, the farther from him. That’s the creed 
here ! ” 

u I don’t know,” said his brother, whose roused feel- 
ings had soon yielded to surprise, “ who may have 
abused your ear with such representations ; or why 
you have chosen to try me, rather than another. But 
that you have been trying me, and tampering with me, 
I am now sure. You have a different manner and a dif- 
ferent aspect from any that I ever saw in you I will 
only say to you, once more, you are deceived.” 

“ I know I am,” said the manager. “ I have told 
70U so.” 

“ Not by me,” returned his brother. “ By your in- 


304 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


formant, if you have one. If not, by your own thoughts 
and suspicions.” 

“ I have no suspicions,” said the manager. “ Mine 
are certainties. You pusillanimous, abject, cringing 
dogs ! All making the same show, all canting the 
same story, all whining the same professions, all har- 
boring the same transparent secret.” 

His brother withdrew, without saying more, and shut 
the door as he concluded. Mr. Carker the manager 
drew a chair close before the fire, and fell to beating the 
coals softly with the poker. 

“ The faint-hearted, fawning knaves,” he muttered, 
with his two shining rows of teeth laid bare. “ There’s 
not one among them, who wouldn’t feign to be so shocked 
and outraged ! — Bah ! There’s not one among them, 
but if he had at once the power, and the wit and daring 
to use it, would scatter Dombey’s pride and lay it low, as 
ruthlessly as I rake out these ashes/’ 

As he broke them up, and strewed them in the grate, 
he looked on with a thoughtful smile, at what he was 
doing. “ Without the same queen beckoner too ! ” he 
added presently ; “ and there is a pride there, not to be 
forgotten — witness our own acquaintance!” With that 
he fell into a deeper revery, and sat pondering over the 
blackening grate, until he rose up like a man who had 
been absorbed in a book, and looking round him took 
his hat and gloves, went to where his horse was waiting, 
mounted, and rode away through the lighted streets ; 
for it was evening. 

He rode near Mr. Dombey’s house ; and falling into a 
walk as he approached it, looked up at the windows. 
The window where he had once seen Florence sitting 
with her dog, attracted his attention first, though there 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


305 


was no light in it ; but he smiled as he carried his eyes 
up the tall front of the house, and seemed to leave that 
object superciliously behind. 

“ Time was,” he said, “ when it was well to watch 
even your rising little star, and know in what quarter 
there were clouds, to shadow you if needful. But a 
planet has arisen, and you are lost in its light.” 

He turned the white-legged horse, round the street 
corner, and sought one shining window from among those 
at the back of the house. Associated with it was a cer- 
tain stately presence, a gloved hand, the remembrance 
how the feathers of a beautiful bird’s wing had been 
showered down upon the floor, and how the light white 
down upon a robe had stirred and rustled, as in the ris- 
ing of a distant storm. These were the things he carried 
with him as he turned* away again, and rode through the 
darkening and deserted parks at a quick rate. 

In fatal truth, these were associated with a woman, a 
proud woman, who hated him, but who by slow and sure 
degrees had been led on by his craft, and her pride and 
resentment, to endure his company, and little by little to 
receive him as one who had the privilege to talk to her 
of her own defiant disregard of her own husband, and 
her abandonment of high consideration for herself. They 
were associated with a woman who hated him deeply? 
and who knew him, and who mistrusted him because she 
knew him, and because he knew her ; but who fed her 
fierce resentment by suffering him to draw nearer and 
yet nearer to her every day, in spite of the hate she 
cherished for him. In spite of it ! For that very reason ; 
since its depths, too far down for her threatening eye to 
pierce, though she could see into them dimly, lay the 
dark retaliation, whose faintest shadow seen once and 
20 


VOL. III. 


306 , 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


shuddered at, and never seen again, would have been 
sufficient stain upon her soul. 

Did the phantom of such a woman flit about him on 
his ride ; true to the reality, and obvious to him ? 

Yes. He saw her in his mind, exactly as she was. 
She bore him company with her pride, resentment, 
hatred, all as plain to him as her beauty ; with nothing 
plainer to him than her hatred of him. He saw her 
sometimes haughty and repellant at his side, and some- 
times down among his horse’s feet, fallen and in the 
dust. But he always saw her as she was, without dis- 
guise, and watched her on the dangerous way that she 
was going. 

And when his ride was over, and he was newly 
dressed, and came into the light of her bright room with 
his bent head, soft voice, and soothfhg smile, he saw her 
yet as plainly. He even suspected the mystery of the 
gloved hand, and held it all the longer in his own for 
that suspicion. Upon the dangerous way that she was 
going, he was still ; and not a footprint did she mark 
upon it, but he set his own there, straight. 


































% 























































































































































































■ 

■ 

■ 


• 
































V 







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At this stage oi her recovery Car-lain L'uUlc, wifli an itti^ exfcc-t 
association of './atcli a Pnvsiciaii's tier linen t of a patient .to ok 
las own down from (he mantel -shelf, and no ding it out on rcsdcoA 
and taking Florence's hand in ms. looked steadily from one to the other 
as expecting the dial to do something.’ 




















DOMBEY AND SON. 


VOLUME IV 





























































































































■' * ' u '• / 


! : - u 










,■ i A t It i 























































































DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

THE THUNDERBOLT. 

The barrier between Mr. Dombey and his wife, was 
not weakened by time. Ill-assorted couple, unhappy in 
themselves and in each other, bound together by no tie 
but the manacle that joined their fettered hands, and 
straining that so harshly, in their shrinking asunder, that 
it wore and chafed to the bone, Time, consoler of afflic- 
tion and softener of anger, could do nothing to help them. 
Their pride, however different in kind and object, was 
equal in degree ; and, in their flinty opposition, struck 
out fire between them which might smoulder or might 
blaze, as circumstances were, but burned up everything 
within their mutual reach, and made their marriage 
way a road of ashes. 

Let us be just to him : In the monstrous delusion of 
his life, swelling with every grain of sand that shifted in 
its glass, he urgeid her on, he little thought to what, or 
considered how ; but still his feeling towards her, such as 
it was, remained as at first. She had the grand demerit 
of unaccountably putting herself in opposition to the rec- 
ognition of his vast importance, and to the acknowledg- 
ment of her complete submission to it, and so far it was 


8 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


necessary to correct and reduce her ; but otherwise he 
still considered her, in his cold way, a lady capable of 
doing honor, if she would, to his choice and name, and 
of reflecting credit on his proprietorship. 

Now, she with all her might of passionate and proud 
resentment, bent her dark glance from day to day, and 
hour to hour — from that night in her own chamber, 
when she had sat gazing at the shadows on the wall, to 
the deeper night fast coming — upon one figure directing 
a crowd of humiliations and exasperations against her; 
and that figure, still her husband’s. 

Was Mr. Dombey’s master- vice that ruled him so in- 
exorably, an unnatural characteristic ? It might be worth 
while, sometimes, to inquire what Nature is, and how men 
work to change her, and whether, in the enforced distor- 
tions so produced, it is not natural to be unnatural. Coop 
any son or daughter of our mighty mother within narrow 
range, and bind the prisoner to one idea, and foster it by 
servile worship of it on the part of the few timid or de- 
signing people standing round, and what is Nature to the 
willing captive who has never risen up upon the wings 
of a free mind — drooping and useless soon — to see her 
in her comprehensive truth ! 

Alas ! are there so few things in the world, about us, 
most unnatural, and yet most natural in being so ! Hear 
the magistrate or judge admonish the unnatural outcasts 
of society ; unnatural in brutal habits, unnatural in want 
of decency, unnatural in losing and confounding all dis- 
tinctions between good and evil ; unnatural in ignorance, 
in vice, ic recklessness, in contumacy, in mind, in looks, 
in everything. But follow the good clergyman or doc- 
tor, who, with his life imperilled at every breath he 
draws, goes down into their dens, lying within the echoes 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


9 


of our carriage-wheels and daily tread upon the pave- 
ment stones. Look round upon the world of odious 
sights — millions of immortal creatures have no other 
world on earth — at the lightest mention of which hu- 
manity revolts, and dainty delicacy living in the next 
street, stops her ears, and lisps, u I don’t believe it ! ” 
Breathe the polluted air, foul with every impurity that 
is poisonous to health and life ; and have every sense, 
conferred upon our race for its delight and happiness, 
offended, sickened, and disgusted, and made a channel 
by which misery and death alone can enter. Vainly 
attempt to think of any simple plant, or dower, or 
wholesome weed, that, set in this foetid bed, could have 
its natural growth, or put its little leaves forth to the 
sun as God designed it. And then, calling up some 
ghastly child, with stunted form and wicked face, hold 
forth on its unnatural sinfulness, and lament its being, 
so early, far away from Heaven — but think a little 
of its having been conceived, and born and bred in 
Hell! 

Those who study the physical sciences, and bring 
them to bear upon the health of man, tell us that if the 
noxious particles that rise from vitiated air, were pal- 
pable to the sight, we should see them lowering in a 
dense black cloud above such haunts, and rolling slowly 
on to corrupt the better portions of a town. But if the 
moral pestilence that rises with them, and, in the eter- 
nal laws of outraged Nature, is inseparable from them, 
could be made discernible too, how terrible the revela- 
tion ! Then should we see depravity, impiety, drunk- 
enness, theft, murder, and a long train of nameless sins 
against the natural affections and repulsions of mankind, 
overhanging the devoted spots, and creeping on, to blight 


10 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the innocent and spread contagion among the pure. Then 
should we see how the same poisoned fountains that flow 
into our hospitals and lazar-houses, inundate the jails, 
and make the convict-ships swim deep, and roll across 
the seas, and over-run vast continents with crime. Then 
should we stand appalled to know, that where we gener- 
ate disease to strike our children down and entail itself 
on unborn generations, there also we breed, by the same 
certain process, infancy that knows no innocence, youth 
without modesty or shame, maturity that is mature in 
nothing but in suffering and in guilt, blasted old age that 
is a scandal on the form we bear. Unnatural humanity! 
When we shall gather grapes from thorns, and figs from 
thistles ; when fields of grain shall spring up from the 
offal in the by-ways of our wicked cities, and roses 
bloom in the fat church-yards that they cherish ; then 
we may look for natural humanity, and find it growing 
from such seed. 

Oh for a good spirit who would take the house-tops 
off, with a more potent and benignant hand than the 
lame demon in the tale, and show a Christian people 
what dark shapes issue from amidst their homes, to swel 1 
the retinue of the Destroying Angel as he moves forth 
among them ! For only one night’s view of the pale 
phantoms rising from the scenes of our too-long neglect ; 
and, from the thick and sullen air where Vice and Fever 
propagate together, raining the tremendous social retri- 
butions which are ever pouring down, and ever coming 
thicker! Bright and blest the morning that should rise 
on such a night : for men, delayed no more by stum- 
bling-blocks of their own making, which are but specks 
of dust upon the path between them anu eternity, would 
then apply themselves, like creatures of one common 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


11 


origin, owning one duty to the Father of one family, and 
tending to one common end, to make the world a better 
place ! 

Not the less bright and blest would that day be for 
rousing some who never have looked out upon the world 
of human life around them, to a knowledge of their own 
relation to it, and for making them acquainted with a 
perversion of nature in their ow r n contracted sympathies 
and estimates ; as great, and yet as natural in its devel- 
opment when once begun, as the lowest degradation 
known. 

But no such day had ever dawned on Mr. Dombey, 
or his wife ; and the course of each was taken. 

Through six months that ensued upon his accident, 
they held the same relations one towards the other. A 
marble rock could not have stood more obdurately in his 
way than she ; and no chilled spring, lying uncheered by 
any ray of light in the depths of a deep cave, could be 
more sullen or more cold than he. 

The hope that had fluttered within her when the 
promise of her new home dawned, was quite gone from 
the heart of Florence now r . That home was nearly two 
years old ; and even the patient trust that was in her, 
could not survive the daily blight of such experience. 
If she had any lingering fancy in the nature of hope 
left, that Edith and her father might be happier together 
in some distant time, she had none, now, that her father 
would ever love her. The little interval in which she 
had imagined that she saw some small relenting in 
him, was forgotten in the long remembrance of his 
coldness since and before, or only remembered as a 
sorrowful delusion. 

Florence loved him still, but by degrees, had come to 


12 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


lave him rather as some dear one who had been, or who 
might have been, than as the hard reality before her 
eyes. Something of the softened sadness with which 
she loved the memory of little Paul, or her mother, 
seemed to enter now into her thoughts of him, and to 
make them, as it were, a dear remembrance. Whether 
it was that he was dead to her, and that partly for this 
reason, partly for his share in those old objects of her 
Section, and partly for the long association of him with 
? opes that w r ere withered and tendernesses he had fro- 
zen, she could not have told ; but the father whom she 
loved began to be a vague and dreamy idea to her; 
hardly more substantially connected with her real life, 
than the image she would sometimes conjure up of her 
dear brother yet alive, and growing to be a man, who 
would protect and cherish her. 

The change, if it may be called one, had stolen on 
her like the change from childhood to womanhood, and 
had come with it. Florence was almost seventeen, 
when, in her lonely musings, she was conscious of these 
thoughts. 

She was often alone now, for the old association be- 
tween her and her mama was greatly changed. At the 
time of her father’s accident, and when he was lying 
in his room down-stairs, Florence had first observed 
that Edith avoided her. Wounded and shocked, and 
yet unable to reconcile this with her affection when they 
did meet, she sought her in her own room at night, once 
more. 

“ Mama,” said Florence, stealing softly to her side, 
* have I offended you ? ” 

Edith answered, “ No.” 

“I must have done something,” said Florence. “Tell 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


13 


me wliat it is. You have changed your manner to me, 
dear mama. I cannot say how instantly I feel the least 
change ; for I love you with my whole heart.” 

“ As I do you,” said Edith. “ Ah, Florence, believe 
me never’ more than now ! ” 

“ Why do you go away from me so often, and keep 
away ? ” asked Florence. “ And why do you sometimes 
look so strangely on me, dear mama ? You do so, do 
you not ? ” 

Edith signified assent with her dark eyes. 

“ Why,” returned Florence imploringly. “ Tell me 
why, that I may know how to please you better ; and 
tell me this shall not be so any more.” 

“ My Florence,” answered Edith, taking the hand that 
embraced her neck, and looking into the eyes that looked 
into hers so lovingly, as Florence knelt upon the ground 
before her ; “ why it is, I cannot tell you. It is neither 
for me to say, nor you to hear ; but that it is, and that 
it must be, I know. Should I do it if I did not ? ” 

“ Are we to be estranged, mama ? ” asked Florence, 
gazing at her like one frightened. 

Edith’s silent lips formed “ Yes.” 

Florence looked at her with increasing fear and won- 
der, until she could see her no more through the blind- 
ing tears that ran down her face. 

“ Florence ! my life ! ” said Edith, hurriedly, “ listen 
to me. I cannot bear to see this grief. Be calmer. 
You see that I am composed, and is it nothing to 
me?” 

She resumed her steady voice and manner as she 
said the latter words, and added presently : 

“ Not wholly estranged. Partially : and only that, in 
appearance, Florence, for in my own breast I am still 


14 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the same to you, and ever will be. But what I do is 
not done for myself.” 

“ Is it for me, mama ? ” asked Florence. 

3< It is enough,” said Edith, after a pause, “ to know 
what it is ; why, matters little. Dear Florence, it is 
better — it is necessary — it must be — that our asso- 
ciation should be less frequent. The confidence there 
has been between us must be broken off.” 

“ When ? ” cried Florence. “ Oh, mama, when ? ” 

“ Now,” said Edith. 

“ For all time to come ? ” asked Florence. 

“ I do not say that,” answered Edith. “ I do not know 
that. Nor will I say that companionship between us, is, 
at the best, an ill-assorted and unholy union, of which I 
might have known no good could come. My way here 
has been through paths that you will never tread, and 
my way henceforth may lie — God knows — I do not 
see it ” — 

Her voice died away into silence ; and she sat, look- 
ing at Florence, and almost shrinking from her, with the 
same strange dread and wild avoidance that Florence 
had noticed once before. The same dark pride and rage 
succeeded, sweeping over her form and features like an 
angry chord across the strings of a wild harp. But no 
softness or humility ensued on that. She did not lay 
her head down now, and weep, and say that she had no 
hope but in Florence. She held it up as if she were a 
beautiful Medusa, looking on him, face to face, to strike 
him dead. Yes, and she would have done it, if she had 
had the charm. 

“ Mama,” said Florence anxiously, there is a change 
in you, in more than what you say to me, which alarms 
me. Let me stay with you a little.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


15 


“ No,” said Edith, “ no, dearest. I am best left alone 
now, and I do best to keep apart from you, of all else. 
Ask me no questions, but believe that what I am when 
I seem fickle or capricious to you, I am not of my own 
will, or for myself. Believe, though we are stranger to 
each other than we have been, that I am unchanged to 
you within. Forgive me for having ever darkened your 
dark home — I am a shadow on it, I know well — and 
let us never speak of this again.” 

“ Mama,” sobbed Florence, “ we are not to part?” 

“ We do this that we may not part,” said Edith. “ Ask 
no more. Go, Florence ! My love and my remorse go 
with you !” 

She embraced her, and dismissed her ; and as Flor- 
ence passed out of her room, Edith looked on the retir- 
ing figure, as if her good angel went out in that form, 
and left her to the haughty and indignant passions that 
now claimed her for their own, and set their seal upon 
her brow. 

From that hour, Florence and she were, as they had 
been, no more. For days together, they would seldom 
meet, except at table, and when Mr. Dombey was pres- 
ent. Then Edith, imperious, inflexible, and silent, never 
looked at her. Whenever Mr. Carker was of the party, 
as he often was, during the progress of Mr. Dombey’s 
recovery, and afterwards, Edith held herself more re- 
moved from her, and was more distant towards her, than 
at other times. Yet she and Florence never encoun- 
tered, when there was no one by, but she wculd embrace 
her as affectionately as of old, though not with the same 
relenting of her proud aspect ; and often, when she had 
been out late, she would steal up to Florence’s room, 
as she had been used to do, in the dark, and whisper 


16 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


* Good-night,” on her pillow. When unconscious, in 
her slumber, of such visits, Florence would sometimes 
awake, as from a dream of those words, softly spoken, 
and would seem to feel the touch of lips upon her face.. 
But less and less often as the months went ol. 

And now the void in Florence’s own heart began 
again, indeed, to make a solitude around her. As the 
image of the father whom she loved had insensibly be- 
come a mere abstraction, so Edith, following the fate of 
all the rest about whom her affections had entwined 
themselves, was fleeting, fading, growing paler in the 
distance, every day. Little by little, she receded from 
Florence, like the retiring ghost of what she had been ; 
little by little, the chasm between them widened and 
seemed deeper ; little by little, all the power of earnest- 
ness and tenderness she had shown, was frozen up in the 
bold, angry hardihood with which she stood, upon the 
brink of a deep precipice unseen by Florence, daring 
to look down. 

There was but one consideration to set against the 
heavy loss of Edith, and though it was slight comfort to 
her burdened heart, she tried to think it some relief. 
No longer divided between her affection and duty to the 
two, Florence could love both and do no injustice to 
either. As shadows of her fond imagination, she could 
give them equal place in her own bosom, and wrong 
them with no doubts. 

So she tried to do. At times, and often too, wonder- 
ing speculations on the cause of this change in Edith, 
would obtrude themselves upon her mind and frighten 
her ; but in the calm of its abandonment once more to 
silent grief and loneliness, it was not a curious mind. 
Florence had only to remember that her star of promise 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


17 


was clouded in the general gloom that hung upon the 
house, and to weep and be resigned. 

Thus living, in a dream wherein the overflowing love 
of her young heart expended itself on airy forms, and 
in a real world where she had experienced little but the 
rolling back of that strong tide upon itself, Florence 
grew to be seventeen. Timid and retiring as her soli- 
tary life had made her, it had not embittered her sweet 
temper, or her earnest nature. A child in innocent 
simplicity; a woman in her modest self-reliance, and her 
deep intensity of feeling ; both child and woman seemed 
at once expressed in her fair face and fragile delicacy 
of shape, and gracefully to mingle there ; — as if the 
spring should be unwilling to depart when summer came, 
and sought to blend the earlier beauties of the flowers 
with their bloom. But in her thrilling voice, in her 
calm eyes, sometimes in a strange ethereal light that 
seemed to rest upon her head, and always in a certain 
pensive air upon her beauty, there was an expression, 
such as had been seen in the dead boy ; and the coun- 
cil in the Servants’ Hall whispered so among themselves, 
and shook their heads, and ate and drank the more, in 
a closer bond of good-fellowship. 

This observant body had plenty to say of Mr. and 
Mrs. Dombey, and of Mr. Carker, who appeared to be 
a mediator between them, and who came and went as 
if lie were trying to make peace, but never could. They 
all deplored the uncomfortable state of affairs, and all 
agreed that Mrs. Pipchin (whose unpopularity was not 
to be surpassed) had some hand in it; but, upon the 
whole, it was agreeable to have so good a subject for a 
rallying point, and they made a great deal of it, and en- 
joyed themselves very much. 

VOL. iv. 2 


18 


DOMBEY aN D SCN. 


The general visitors who came to (he house, and those 
among whom Mr. and Mrs. Dombey visited, thought it a 
pretty equal match, as to haughtiness, at all events, and 
thought nothing more about it. The young lady with 
the back did not appear for some time after Mrs. Skew- 
ton’s death ; observing to some particular friends, with 
her usual engaging little scream, that she couldn’t sepa- 
rate the family from a notion of tombstones, and horrors 
of that sort ; but when she did come, she saw nothing 
wrong, except Mr. Dombey’s wearing a bunch of gold 
seals to his watch, which shocked her very much, as an 
exploded superstition. This youthful fascinator consid- 
ered a daughter-in-law objectionable in principle ; other- 
wise, she had nothing to say against Florence, but that 
she sadly wanted “ style ” — which might mean back, 
perhaps. Many, who only came to the house on state 
occasions, hardly knew who Florence was, and said, go^ 
ing home, “ Indeed ! was that Miss Dombey, in the 
corner? Very pretty, but a little delicate and thoughtful 
in appearance ! ” 

None the less so, certainly, for her life of the last six 
months, Florence took her seat at the dinner-table, on 
the day before the second anniversary of her father’s 
marriage to Edith (Mrs. Skewton had been lying 
stricken with paralysis when the first came round), 
with an uneasiness, amounting to dread. She had no 
other warrant for it, than the occasion, the expression 
of her father’s face, in the hasty glance she caught of 
it, and the presence of Mr. Carker, which, always un- 
pleasant to her, was more so on this day, than she had 
ever felt it before. 

Edith was richly dressed, for she and Mr. Dombey 
were engaged in the evening to some large assembly, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


19 


and the dinner-hour that day was late. She did not 
appear until they were seated at table, when Mr. Carker 
rose and led her to her chair. Beautiful and lustrous 
as she was, there was that in her face and air which 
seemed to separate her hopelessly from Florence, and 
from every one, for evermore. And yet, for an instant, 
Florence saw a beam of kindness in her eyes, when they 
were turned on her, that made the distance to which she 
had withdrawn herself, a greater cause of sorrow and 
regret than ever. 

There was very little said at dinner. Florence heard 
her father speak to Mr. Carker sometimes on business 
matters, and heard him softly reply, but she paid little 
attention to what they said, and only wished the dinner 
at an end. When the dessert was placed upon the table, 
and they were left alone, with no servant in attendance, 
Mr. Dombey, who had been several times clearing his 
throat in a manner that augured no good, said : 

u Mrs. Dombey, you know, I suppose, that I have 
instructed the house-keeper that there will be some com- 
pany to dinner here to-morrow.” 

“ I do not dine at home,” she answered. 

“ Not a large party,” pursued Mr. Dombey, with an 
indifferent assumption of not having heard her ; “ merely 
some twelve or fourteen. My sister, Major Bagstock, 
and some others whom you know but slightly.” 

“I do not dine at home,” she repeated. 

“ However doubtful reason I may have, Mrs. Dom- 
bey,” said Mr. Dombey, still going majestically on, as if 
she had not spoken, “ to hold the occasion in very pleas- 
ant remembrance just now, there are appearances in 
these things which must be maintained before the world, 
tf you have no respect for yourself, Mrs. Dombey ” — 


20 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ I have noae,” she said. 

“ Madam,” cried Mr. Dombey, striking his hand upon 
the table, “ hear me, if you please. I say, if you have 
no respect for yourself” — 

“ And I say I have none,” she answered. 

He looked at her ; but the face she showed him in 
return would not have changed, if death itself had 
looked. 

“ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, turning more quietly to 
that gentleman, “ as you have been my medium of com- 
munication with Mrs. Dombey on former occasions, and 
as I choose to preserve the decencies of life, so far as 1 
am individually concerned, I will trouble you to have the 
goodness to inform Mrs. Dombey that if she has no 
respect for herself, I have some respect for wyself, 
and therefore insist on my arrangements for to-mor- 
row.” 

“ Tell your sovereign master, sir,” said Edith, “ that I 
will take leave to speak to him on this subject by-and-by, 
and that I will speak to him alone.” 

“ Mr. Carker, madam,” said her husband, “ being in 
possession of the reason which obliges me to refuse you 
that privilege, shall be absolved from the delivery of any 
such message.” He saw her eyes move, while he spoke, 
and followed them with his own. 

“ Your daughter is present, sir,” said Edith. 

“ My daughter will remain present,” said Mr. Dombey. 

Florence, who had risen, sat down again, hiding her 
face in her hands, and trembling. 

“ My daughter, madam ” — began Mr. Dombey. 

But Edith stopped him, in a voice which, although not 
raised in the least, was so clear, emphatic, and distinct, 
that it might have been heard in a whirlwind. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


21 


“ I tell you I will speak to you alone,” she said. “ If 
you are not mad, heed what I say ” 

“ I have authority to speak to you, madam,” returned 
her husband, “ when and where I please ; and it is my 
pleasure to speak here and now.” 

She rose up as if to leave the room ; but sat down 
again, and looking at him with all outward composure, 
said, in the same voice : 

“You shall!” 

“ I must tell you first, that there is a threatening 
appearance in your manner, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, 
“ which does not become you.” 

She laughed. The shaken diamonds in her hair 
started and trembled. There are fables of precious 
stones that would turn pale, their wearer being in dan- 
ger. Had these been such, their imprisoned rays of 
light would have taken flight that moment, and they 
would have been as dull as lead. 

Carker listened with his eyes cast down. 

“ As to my daughter, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, re- 
suming the thread of his discourse, “ it is by no means 
inconsistent with her duty to me, that she should know 
what conduct to avoid. At present you are a very 
strong example to her of this kind, and I hope she may 
profit by it.” 

“ I would not stop you now,” returned his wife, im- 
movable in eye, and voice, and attitude ; “ I would not 
rise and go away, and save you the utterance of one 
word, if the room were burning.” 

Mr. Dombey moved his head, as if in a sarcastic 
acknowledgment of the attention, and resumed. But 
not with so much self-possession as before ; for Edith’s 
quick uneasiness in reference to Florence, and Edith’s 


22 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


indifference to him and his censure, chafed and galled 
him like a stiffening wound. 

“ Mrs. Dombey,” said he, “ it may not be inconsistent 
with my daughter’s improvement to know how very 
much to be lamented, and how necessary to be corrected, 
a stubborn disposition is, especially when it is indulged 
in — unthankfully indulged in, I will add — after the 
gratification of ambition and interest. Both of which, I 
believe, had some share in inducing you to occupy your 
present station at this board.” 

“ No ! I would not rise, and go away, and save you 
the utterance of one word,” she repeated, exactly as be- 
fore, “ if the room were burning.” 

“ It may be natural enough, Mrs. Dombey,” he pur- 
sued, “ that you should be uneasy in the presence of any 
auditors of these disagreeable truths; though why” — 
he could not hide his real feelings here, or keep his eyes 
from glancing gloomily at Florence — “ why any one 
can give them greater force and point than myself, 
whom they so nearly concern, I do not pretend to un- 
derstand. It may be natural enough that you should 
object to hear, in anybody’s presence, that there is a 
rebellious principle within you which you cannot curb 
too soon ; which you must curb, Mrs. Dombey ; and 
which, I regret to say, I remember to have seen mani- 
fested — with some doubt and displeasure, on more than 
one occasion before our marriage — towards your de- 
ceased mother. But you have the remedy in your own 
hands. I by no means forgot, when I began, that my 
daughter was present, Mrs. Dombey. I beg you will 
not forget to-morrow, that there are several persons 
present ; and that, with some regard to appearances, you 
will receive your company in a becoming manner.” 


23 


DOMBEY AND SON. 

* 

44 So it ’« not enough,” said Edith, 44 that you know 
what has passed between yourself and me ; it is not 
enough that you can look here,” pointing at Carker, who 
still listened, with his eyes cast down, 44 and be reminded 
of the affronts you have put upon me ; it is not enough 
that you can look here,” pointing to Florence with a 
hand that slightly trembled for the first and only time, 
44 and think of what you have done, and of the ingenious 
agony, daily, hourly, constant, you have made me feel in 
doing it ; it is not enough that this day, of all others in 
the year, is memorable to me for a struggle (well-de- 
served, but not conceivable by such as you) in which I 
wish I had died ! You add to all* this, do you, the last 
crowning meanness of making her a witness of the depth 
to which I have fallen ; when you know that you have 
made me sacrifice to her peace, the only gentle feeling 
and interest of my life ; when you know that for her 
sake, I would now if I could — but I cannot , my soul 
recoils from you too much — submit myself wholly to 
your will, and be the meekest vassal that you have ! ” 

This was not the way to minister to Mr. Dombey’s 
greatness. The old feeling was roused by what she 
said, into a stronger and fiercer existence than it had 
ever had. Again, his neglected child, at this rough 
passage of his life, put forth by even this rebellious 
woman, as powerful where he was powerless, and every- 
thing where he was nothing! 

He turned on Florence, as if it were she who had 
spoken, and bade her leave the room. Florence with 
her covered face obeyed, trembling and weeping as she 
went. 

44 1 understand, madam,” said Mr. Dombey, with an 
ai gry flush of triumph, 44 the spirit of opposition that 


24 


DOMBEY AND SON. 

• 

turned your affections in that channel, but they have 
been met, Mrs. Dombey ; they have been met, and 
turned back ! ” 

“ The worse for you ! ” she answered, with her voice 
and manner still unchanged. “ Ay ! ” for he turned 
sharply when she said so, “ what is the worse for me, is 
twenty million times the worse for you. Heed that, if 
you heed nothing else.” 

The arch of diamonds spanning her dark hair, flashed 
and glittered like a starry bridge. There was no warn- 
ing in them, or they would have turned as dull and dim 
as tarnished honor. Carker still sat and listened, with 
his eyes cast down. 4 

“ Mrs. Dombey,” said Mr. Dombey, resuming as much 
as he could of his arrogant composure, “you will not 
conciliate me, or turn me from any purpose, by this 
course of conduct.” 

“ It is the only true although it is a faint expression 
of what is within me,” she replied. “ But if I thought 
it would conciliate you, I would repress it, if it were 
repressible by any human effort. I will do nothing that 
you ask.” 

“ I am not accustomed to ask, Mrs. Dombey,” he ob- 
served ; “ I direct.” 

“ I will hold no place in your house to-morrow, or on 
any recurrence of to-morrow. I will be exhibited to no 
one, as the refractory slave you purchased, such a time. 
If I kept my marriage-day, I would keep it as a day of 
shame. Self-respect ! appearances before the world ! 
what are these to me ? You have done all you can to 
make them nothing to me, and they are nothing.” 

“ Carker,” said Mr. Dombey, speaking with knitted 
brows, and after a moment’s consideration, “ Mrs. Dorm 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


25 


bey is so forgetful of herself and me' in all this, and 
places me in a position so unsuited to my character, that 
I must bring this state of matters to a close.” 

“ Release me, then,” said Edith immovable in voice, 
in look, and bearing, as she had been throughout, w from 
the chain by which I am bound. Let me go.” 

“ Madam ? ” exclaimed Mr. Dombey. 

“ Loose me. Set me free ! ” 

“ Madam ? ” he repeated, “ Mrs. Dombey ? ” 

“ Tell him,” said Edith, addressing her proud face to 
Carker, “ that I wish for a separation between us. That 
there had better be one. That I recommend it to him. 
Tell him it may take place on his own terms — his 
wealth is nothing to me — but that it cannot be too 
soon.” 

“ Good Heaven, Mrs. Dombey ! ” said her husband, 
with supreme amazement, u do you imagine it possible 
that I could ever listen to such a proposition ? Do you 
know who I am, madam ? Do you know what I rep- 
resent ? Did you ever hear of Dombey and Son ? 
People to say that Mr. Dombey — Mr. Dombey ! — 
was separated from his wife ! Common people to talk 
of Mr. Dombey and his domestic affairs ! Do you se- 
riously think, Mrs. Dombey, that I would permit my 
name to be handed about in such connection ? Pooh, 
pooh, madam ! Fie for shame ! You’re absurd.” Mr. 
Dombey absolutely laughed. 

But not as she did. She had better have been dead 
than laugh as she did, in reply, with her intent look 
fixed upon him. He had better have been dead, than 
sitting there, in his magnificence, to hear her. 

“ No, Mrs. Dombey,” he resumed, “ no, madam. 
There is no possibility of separation between you and 


26 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


me, and therefore I the more advise you to be awakened 
to a sense of duty. And, Carker, as I was about to say 
to you ” — 

Mr. Carker, who had sat and listened all this time, 
now raised his eyes, in which there was a bright un- 
usual light. * 

— 44 As I was about to say to you,” resumed Mr. 
Dombey, 44 1 must beg you, now that matters have come 
to this, to inform Mrs. Dombey, that it is not the rule 
of my life to allow myself to be thwarted by anybody — 
anybody, Carker — or to suffer anybody to be paraded 
as a stronger motive for obedience in those who owe 
obedience to me than I am myself. The mention that 
has been made of my daughter, and the use that is 
made of my daughter, in opposition to me, are unnatu- 
ral. Whether my daughter is in actual concert with 
Mrs. Dombey, I do not know, and do not care ; but 
after what Mrs. Dombey has said to-day, and my 
daughter has heard to-day, I beg you to make known 
to Mrs. Dombey, that if she continues to make this house 
the scene of contention it has become, I shall consider 
my daughter responsible in some degree, on that lady’s 
own avowal, and shall visit her with my severe displeas- 
ure. Mrs. Dombey has asked 4 whether it is not enough,' 
that she had done this and that. You will please to 
answer no, it is not enough.” 

44 A moment ! ” cried Carker, interposing, 44 permit me 1 
painful as my position is, at the best, and unusually pain- 
ful in seeming to entertain a different opinion from you,” 
addressing Mr. Dombey, 44 1 must ask, had you not bet- 
ter reconsider the question of a separation. I know 
how incompatible it appears with your high public po- 
sition, and I know how determined you are when you 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


27 


give Mrs. Dombey to understand ” — the light in his 
eyes fell upon her as he separated his words each from 
each, with the distinctness of so many bells — “that 
nothing but death can ever part you. Nothing else. 
But when you consider that Mrs. Dombey, by living in 
this house, and making it, as you have said, a scene of 
contention, not only has her part in that contention, but 
compromises Miss Dombey every day (for I know how 
determined you are), will you not relieve her from a 
continual irritation of spirit, and a continual sense of 
being unjust to another, almost intolerable ? Does this 
not seem like — I do not say it is — sacrificing Mrs. 
Dombey to the preservation of your preeminent and 
unassailable position ? ” 

Again the light in his eyes fell upon her, as she stood 
looking at her husband : now with an extraordinary and 
awful smile upon her face. 

“ Carker,” returned Mr. Dombey, with a supercilious 
frown, and in a tone that was intended to be final, 
“ you mistake your position in offering advice to me 
on such a point, and you mistake me (I am surprised 
to find) in the character of your advice. I have no 
more to say.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Carker, with an unusual and inde- 
finable taunt in his air, “ you mistook my position, when 
you honored me with the negotiations in which I have 
been engaged here” — with a motion of his hand towards 
Mrs. Dombey. 

“ Not at all, sir, not at all,” returned the other haugh- 
tily. “ You were employed” — 

“ Being an inferior person, for the humiliation of Mrs. 
Dombey. I forgot. Oh, yes, it was expressly under 
Btood ! ” said Carker. “ I beg your pardon ! ” 


26 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


As he bent his head to Mr. Dombey, with an air of 
deference that accorded ill with his words, though they 
were humbly spoken, he moved it round towards her, 
and kept his watching eyes that way. 

She had better have turned hideous and dropped dead, 
than have stood up with such a smile upon her face, in 
6uch a fallen spirit’s majesty of scorn and beauty. She 
lifted her hand to the tiara of bright jewels radiant on 
her head, and, plucking it off with a force that dragged 
and strained her rich black hair with heedless cruelty, 
and brought it tumbling wildly on her shoulders, cast 
the gems upon the ground. From each arm, she un- 
clasped a diamond bracelet, flung it down, and trod 
upon the glittering heap. Without a word, without a 
shadow on the fire of her bright eye, without abatement 
of her awful smile, she looked on Mr. Dombey to the 
last, in moving to the door ; and left him. 

Florence had heard enough before quitting the room, 
to know that Edith loved her yet ; that she had suffered 
for her sake ; and that she had kept her sacrifices quiet, 
lest they should trouble her peace. She did not want 
to speak to her of this — she could not, remembering to 
whom she was opposed — but she wished, in one silent 
and affectionate embrace, to assure her that she felt it 
all, and thanked her. 

Her father went out alone, that evening, and Florence 
issuing from her own chamber soon afterwards, went 
about the house in search of Edith, but unavailingly. 
She was in her own rooms, where Florence had long 
ceased to go, and did not dare to venture now, lest she 
should unconsciously engender new trouble. Still Flor- 
ence, hoping to meet her before going to bed, changed 
from room to room, and wandered through the house 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


29 


so splendid and so dreary, without remaining any- 
where. 

She was crossing a gallery of communication that 
opened at some little distance on the staircase, and was 
only lighted on great occasions, when she saw, through 
the opening, which was an arch, the figure of a man 
coining down some few stairs opposite. Instinctively 
apprehensive of her father, whom she supposed it was, 
she stopped, in the dark, gazing through the arch into 
the light. But it was Mr. Carker coming down alone, 
and looking over the railing into the hall. No bell was 
rung to announce his departure, and no servant was in 
attendance. He went down quietly, opened the door 
for himself, glided out, and shut it softly after him. 

Her invincible repugnance to this man, and perhaps 
the stealthy act of watching any one, which, even under 
such innocent circumstances, is in a manner guilty and 
oppressive, made Florence shake from head to foot. Her 
blood seemed to run cold. As soon as she coul3 — for 
at first she felt an insurmountable dread of moving — 
she went quickly to her own room and locked her door; 
but even then, shut in with her dog beside her, felt a 
chill sensation of horror, as if there were danger brood- 
ing somewhere near her. 

It invaded her dreams and disturbed the whole night. 
Rising in the morning, unrefreshed, and with a heavy 
recollection of the domestic unhappiness of the preced- 
ing day, she sought Edith again, in all the rooms, and 
did so, from time to time, all the morning. But she 
remained in her own chamber, and Florence saw noth- 
ing of her. Learning, however, that the projected din- 
ner at home was put off, Florence thought it likely that 
she would go out in the evening to fulfil the engagement 


30 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


she had spoken of: and resolved to try and meet her, 
then, upon the staircase. 

When the evening had set in, she heard, from the 
room in which she sat on purpose, a footstep on the 
stairs that she thought to be Edith’s. Hurrying out, 
and up towards her room, Florence met her immediately, 
coming down alone. 

What was Florence’s affright and wonder when, at 
sight of her, with her tearful face, and outstretched 
arms, Edith recoiled and shrieked ! 

“ Don’t come near me ! ” she cried. “ Keep away ! 
Let me go by ! ” 

“ Mama ! ” said Florence. 

“ Don’t call me by that name ! Don’t speak to me 
Don’t look at me ! — Florence ! ” shrinking back, as 
Florence moved a step towards her, “ don’t touch me ! ” 

As Florence stood transfixed before the haggard face 
and storing eyes, she noted, as in a dream, that Edith 
spread her hands over them, and, shuddering through 
all her form, and crouching down against the wall, 
crawled by her like some lower animal, sprang up, and 
fled away. 

Florence dropped upon the stairs in a swoon ; and 
was found there by Mrs. Pipchin, she supposed. She 
knew nothing more, until she found herself lying on 
her own bed, with Mrs. Pipchin and some servants 
standing round her. 

“ Where is mama ? ” was her first question. 

“ Gone out to dinner,” said Mrs. Pipchin. 

“ And papa ? ” 

“Mr. Dombey’s in his own room, Miss Dombey,” said 
Mrs. Pipchin, “ and the best thing you can do, is to take 
off your things and go to bed this minute.” This was 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


31 


the sagacious woman’s remedy for all complaints, partic- 
ularly lowness of spirits, and inability to sleep ; for which 
offences many young victims in the days of the Brighton 
Castle had been committed to bed at ten o’clock in the 
morning. 

Without promising obedience, but on the plea of desir- 
ing to be very quiet, Florence disengaged herself, as soon 
as she could, from the ministration of Mrs. Pipchin and 
her attendants. Left alone, she thought of what had 
happened on the staircase, at first in doubt of its reality ; 
then with tears ; then with an indescribable and terrible 
alarm, like that she had felt the night before. 

She determined not to go to bed until Edith returned, 
and if she could not speak to her, at least to be sure that 
she was safe at home. What indistinct and shadowy 
dread moved Florence to this resolution, she did not 
know, and did not dare to think. She only knew that 
until Edith came back, there was no repose for her 
aching head or throbbing heart. 

The evening deepened into night ; midnight came ; no 
Edith. 

Florence could not read, or rest a moment. She 
paced her own room, opened the door and paced the 
staircase-gallery outside, looked out of window on the 
night, listened to the wind blowing and the rain fall- 
ing, sat down and watched the faces in the fire, got 
up and watched the moon flying like a storm-driven 
ship through the sea of clouds. 

All the house was gone to bed, except two servants 
who were waiting the return of their mistress, down- 
stairs. 

One o’clock. The carriages that rumbled in the dis- 
tance* ^ned away, or stopped short, or went past ; the 


32 


DOMBEY ANI> SON. 


silence gradually deepened, and was more and more 
rarely broken, save by a rush of wind or sweep of rain. 
Two o’clock. No Edith. 

Florence, more agitated, paced her room ; and paced 
the gallery outside ; and looked out at the night, blurred 
and wavy with the rain-drops on the glass, and the tears 
in her own eyes ; and looked up at the hurry in the sky, 
so different from the repose below, and yet so tranquil 
and solitary. Three o’clock ! There was a terror in 
every ash that dropped out of the fire. No Edith 
yet. 

More and more agitated, Florence paced her room, 
and paced the gallery, and looked out at the moon with a 
new fancy of her likeness to a pale fugitive hurrying 
away and hiding her guilty face. Four struck ! Five ! 
No Edith yet. 

But now there was some cautious stir in the house ; 
and Florence found that Mrs. Pipchin had been awak- 
ened by one of those who sat up, had risen and had gone 
down to her father’s door. Stealing lower down the 
stairs and observing what passed, she saw her father 
come out in his morning-gown, and start when he was 
told his wife had not come home. He despatched a mes- 
senger to the stables to inquire whether the coachman 
was there ; and while the man was gone, dressed him- 
self very hurriedly. 

The man came back, in great haste, bringing the 
%>achman with him, who said he had been at home 
and in bed since ten o’clock. He had driven his mis- 
tress to her old house in Brook-street, where she had 
been met by Mr. Carker — 

Florence stood upon the very spot where she had seen 
him coming dowm. Again she shivered with the name 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


88 


less terror of that sight, and had hardly steadiness enough 
to hear and understand what followed. 

— Who had told him, the man went on to say, that his 
mistress would not want the carriage to go home in ; and 
had dismissed him. 

She 'Saw her father turn white in the face, and heard 
him ask in a quick, trembling voice, for Mrs. Dombey’s 
maid. The whole house was roused ; for she was there 
in a moment, very pale too, and speaking incoherently. 

She said she had dressed her mistress early — full two 
hours before she went out — and had been told, as she 
often was, that she would not be wanted at night. She 
had just come from her mistress’s rooms, but — 

“ But what ! what was it ? ” Florence heard her father 
demand like a madman. 

“ But the inner dressing-room was locked, and the key 
gone.” 

Her father seized a candle that was flaming on the 
ground — some one had put it down there, and forgotten 
it — and came running up-stairs with such fury, that 
Florence, in her fear, had hardly time to fly before him. 
She heard him striking in the door, as she ran on, with 
her hands wildly spread, and her hair streaminig, and her 
face like a distracted person’s, back to her own room. 

When the door yielded, and he rushed in, what did he 
see there ? No one knew. But thrown down in a costly 
mass upon the ground, was every ornament she had had, 
since she had been his wife ; every dress she had worn ; 
and everything she had possessed. This was the room 
in which he had seen, in yonder mirror, the proud face 
discard him. This was the room in which he had wcn- 
dered, idly, how these things would look when he should 
see them next ! 


VOL. iv. 


34 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Heaping them back into the drawers, and locking them 
up in a rage of haste, he saw some papers on the table. 
The deed of settlement he had executed on their mar- 
riage, and a letter. He read that she was gone. He 
read that he was dishonored. He read that she had fled* 
upon her shameful wedding-day, with the man whom he 
had chosen for her humiliation ; and he tore out of the 
room, and out of the house, with a frantic idea of finding 
her yet, at the place to which she had been taken, and 
beating all trace of beauty out of the triumphant face 
with his bare hand. 

Florence, not knowing what she did, put on a shawl 
and bonnet, in a dream of running through the streets 
until she found Edith, and then clasping her in her arms, 
to save and bring her back. But when she hurried out 
upon the staircase, and saw the frightened servants going 
up and down with lights, and whispering together, and 
falling away from her father as he passed down, she 
awoke to a sense of her own powerlessness ; and hiding 
in one of the great rooms that had been made gorgeous 
for this, felt as if her heart would burst with grief. 

Compassion for her father was the first distinct emotion 
that made head against the flood of sorrow which over- 
whelmed her. Her constant nature turned to him in his 
distress, as fervently and faithfully, as if, in his pros- 
perity, he had been the embodiment of that idea which 
had gradually become so faint and dim. Although she 
did not know r , otherwise than through the suggestions 
of a shapeless fear, the full extent of his calamity, he 
stood before her wronged and deserted ; and again her 
yearning love impelled her to his side. 

He was not long away : for Florence was yet weeping 
in the great room and nourishing thesp thoughts, when 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


35 


she heard him come back. He ordered the servants to 
set about their ordinary occupations, and went into his 
own apartment, where he trod so heavily that she could 
hear him walking up and down from end to end. 

Yielding, at once, to the impulse of her affection, 
timid at all other times, but bold in its truth to him in 
his adversity, and undaunted by past repulse, Florence, 
dressed as she was, hurried down-stairs. As she set her 
light foot in the hall, he came out of his room. She 
hastened towards him unchecked, with her arms stretched 
out, and crying “ Oh dear, dear papa ! ” as if she would 
have clasped him round the neck. 

And so she would have done. But in his frenzy, he 
lifted up his cruel arm, and struck her, crosswise, with 
that heaviness, that she tottered on the marble floor ; and 
as he dealt the blow, he told her what Edith was, and 
bade her follow her, since they had always been in 
league. 

She did not sink down at his feet ; she did not shut 
out the sight of him with her trembling hands ; she did 
not weep ; she did not utter one word of reproach. But 
she looked at him, and a cry of desolation issued from 
her heart. For as she looked, she saw him murdering 
that fond idea to which she had held in spite of him. 
She saw his cruelty, neglect, and hatred dominant 
above it, and stamping it down. She saw she had 
no father upon earth, and ran out, orphaned, from his 
house. 

Ran out of his house. A moment, and her hand was 
on the lock, the cry was on her lips, his face was there, 
made paler by the yellow candles hastily put down and 
guttering away, and by the daylight coming in above the 
door. Another moment, and the close darkness of the 


36 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


shut-up house (forgotten to be opened, though it was 
long since day) yielded to the unexpected glare and 
freedom of the morning; and Florence, with her head 
bent down to hide her agony of tears, was in the 
etreets. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


37 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

THE FLIGHT OF FLORENCE. 

In the wildness of her sorrow, shame, and terror, the 
forlorn girl hurried through the sunshine of a bright 
morning, as if it were the darkness of a winter night. 
Wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, insensible to 
everything but the deep wound in her breast, stunned by 
the loss of all she loved, left like the sole survivor on a 
lonely shore from the wreck of a great vessel, she fled 
without a thought, without a hope, without a purpose, 
but to fly somewhere — anywhere. 

The cheerful vista of the long street, burnished by the 
morning light, the sight of the blue sky and airy clouds, 
the vigorous freshness of the day, so flushed and rosy in 
its conquest of the night, awakened no responsive feel- 
ings in her so hurt bosom. Somewhere, anywhere, to 
hide her head ! somewhere, anywhere, for refuge, never 
more to look upon the place from which she fled ! 

But there were people going to and fro ; there were 
opening shops, and servants at the doors of houses ; there 
was the rising clash and roar of the day’s struggle. Flor- 
ence saw surprise and curiosity in the faces flitting past 
her ; saw long shadows coming back upon the pavement ; 
and heard voices that were strange to her asking her 
where she went, and what the matter was ; and though 
these frightened her the more at first, and made her 


38 


POMBEY AND SON. 


huny on the faster, they did her the good service of 
recalling her in some degree to herself, and reminding 
her of the necessity of greater composure. 

Where to go ? Still somewhere, anywhere ! still going 
on ; but where ! She thought of the only other time she 
had been lost in the wide wilderness of London — though 
not lost as now — and went that way. To the home of 
Walter’s uncle. 

Checking her sobs, and drying her swollen eyes, and 
endeavoring to calm the agitation of her manner, so as 
to avoid attracting notice, Florence, resolving to keep to 
the more quiet streets as long as she could, was going on 
more quietly herself, when a familiar little shadow darted 
past upon the sunny pavement, stopped short, wheeled 
about, came close to her, made off again, bounded round 
and round her, and Diogenes, panting for breath, and yet 
making the street ring with his glad bark, was at her 
feet. 

“ Oh, Di ! oh, dear, true, faithful Di, how did you 
come here ! How could I ever leave you, Di, who 
would never leave me ! ” 

Florence bent down on the pavement, and laid his 
rough, old, loving, foolish head against her breast, and 
they got up together, and went on together ; Di more off 
the ground than on it, endeavoring to kiss his mistress 
flying, tumbling over and getting up again without the 
least concern, dashing at big dogs in a jocose defiance of 
his species, terrifying with touches of his nose young 
house-maids who were cleaning doorsteps, and continually 
stopping, in the midst of a thousand extravagances, to 
look back at Florence, and bark until all the dogs within 
hearing answered, and all the dogs who could come out, 
came out to stare at him. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


30 


With this last adherent, Florence hurried away in the 
advancing morning, and the strengthening sunshine, to 
the city. The roar soon grew more loud, the passengers 
more numerous, the shops more busy, until she was 
carried onward in a stream of life setting that way, and 
flowing indifferently, past marts and mansions, prisons, 
churches, market-places, wealth, poverty, good and evil, 
like the broad river, side by side with it, awakened from 
its dreams of rushes, willows, and green moss, and rolling 
on, turbid and troubled, among the works and cares of 
men, to the deep sea. 

At length the quarters of the little Midshipman arose 
in view. Nearer yet, and the little Midshipman himself 
was seen upon his post, intent as ever, on his observa- 
tions. Nearer yet, and the door stood open, inviting her 
to enter. Florence, who had again quickened her pace, 
as she approached the end of her journey, ran across the 
road (closely followed by Diogenes, whom the bustle had 
somewhat confused), ran in, and sank upon the threshold 
of the well-remembered little parlor. 

The captain, in his glazed hat, was standing over the 
fire, making his morning’s cocoa, with that elegant trifle, 
his watch, upon the chimney-piece, for easy reference 
during the progress of the cookery. Hearing a footstep 
and the rustle of a dress, the captain turned with a pal- 
pitating remembrance of the dreadful Mrs. MacStinger, 
at the instant when Florence made a motion with her 
hand towards him, reeled, and fell upon the floor. 

The captain, pale as Florence, pale in the very knobs 
upon his face, raised her like a baby, and laid her on 
the same old sofa upon which she had slumbered long 
ago. 

“ It’s Heart’s Delight ! ” said the captain, looking 


40 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


intently in her face. “ It’s the sweet creetur grow’d a 
w oman ! ” 

Captain Cuttle was so respectful of her, and had such 
a reverence for her, in this new character, that he would 
not have held her in his arms, while she was unconscious, 
for a thousand pounds. 

“ My Heart’s Delight ! ” said the captain, withdrawing 
to a little distance, with the greatest alarm and sympathy 
depicted on his countenance. “ If you can hail Ned 
Cuttle with a finger, do it!” 

But Florence did not stir. 

“ My Heart’s Delight ! ” said the trembling captain. 
“ For the sake of Wal’r drownded in the briny deep, turn 
to, and histe up something or another, if able ! ” 

Finding her insensible to this impressive adjuration 
also, Captain Cuttle snatched from his breakfast-table, a 
basin of cold water, and sprinkled some upon her face. 
Yielding to the urgency of the case, the captain then, 
using his immense hand with extraordinary gentleness, 
relieved her of her bonnet, moistened her lips and fore- 
head, put back her hair, covered her feet with his own 
coat which he pulled off for the purpose, patted her hand 
— so small in his, that he was struck with wonder when 
he touched it — and seeing that her eyelids quivered, 
and that her lips began to move, continued these restora- 
tive applications with a better heart. 

“ Cheerily,” said the captain. rt Cheerily ! Stand by, 
my pretty one, stand by ! There! You’re better now. 
Steady’s the word, and steady it is. Keep her so ! 
Drink a little drop o’ this here,” said the captain. 
u There you are ! What cheer now, my pretty, what 
cheer now ? ” 

At this stage of her recovery, Captain Cuttle, with an 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


41 


imperfect association of a Watch with a Physician’s treat- 
ment of a patient, took his own down from the mantel- 
shelf, and holding it out on his hook, and taking Flor- 
ence’s hand in his, looked steadily from one to the 
other, as expecting the dial to do something. 

“ What cheer, my pretty ? ” said the captain. “ What 
cheer now ? You’ve done her some good my lad, 1 
belisve,” said the captain, under his breath, and throw- 
ing an approving glance upon his watch. “ Put you 
back half an hour every morning, and about another 
quarter towards the afternoon, and you’re a watch as 
can be ekalled by few and excelled by none. What 
cheer, my lady lass ! ” 

“ Captain Cuttle ! Is it you ! ” exclaimed Florence, 
raising herself a little. 

“Yes, yes, my lady lass,” said the captain, hastily 
deciding in his own mind upon the superior elegance 
of that form of address, as the most courtly he could 
think of. 

“ Is Walter’s uncle here ? ” asked Florence. 

“ Here, pretty ! ” returned the captain. “ He a’n’t 
been here this many a long day. He a’n’t been heerd 
on, since he sheered off arter poor Wal’r. But,” said 
the captain, as a quotation, “ Though lost to sight, to 
memory dear, and England, Home, and Beauty ! ” 

“ Do you live here ? ” asked Florence. 

“ Yes, my lady lass,” returned the captain. 

“Oh Captain Cuttle!” cried Florence, putting her 
hands together, and speaking wildly. “ Save me ! keep 
me here ! Let no one know where I am ! I’ll tell you 
what has happened by and by, when I can. I have no 
one in the world to go to. Do not send me away ! ” 

u Send you away, my lady lass ! ” exclaimed the cap- 


42 


DOMBEY A NL> SON. 


tain. “ You , my Heart’s Delight ! Stay a bit ! We’ll 
put up this here dead-light, and take a double turn on 
the key ! ” 

With these words, the captain, using his one hand and 
his hook with the greatest dexterity, got out the shutter 
of the door, put it up, made it all fast, and locked the 
door itself. 

When he came back to the side of Florence, she took 
his hand, and kissed it. The helplessness of the action, 
the appeal it made to him, the confidence it expressed, 
the unspeakable sorrow in her face, the pain of mind she 
had too plainly suffered, and was suffering then, his 
knowledge of her past history, her present lonely, worn, 
and unprotected appearance, all so rushed upon the good 
captain together, that he fairly overflowed with compas- 
sion and gentleness. 

“ My lady lass,” said the captain, polishing the bridge 
of his nose with his arm until it shone like burnished 
copper, “don’t you say a word to Ed’ard Cuttle, until 
such times as you finds yourself a-riding smooth and 
easy ; which won’t be to-day, nor yet to-morrow. And 
as to giving of you up, or reporting where you are, yes 
verily, and by God’s help, so I won’t, Church catechism, 
make a note on ! ” 

This the captain said, reference and all, in one 
breath, and with much solemnity ; taking off his hat at 
“ yes verily,” and putting it on again, when he. had quite 
concluded. 

Florence could do but one thing more to thank him, 
and to show him how she trusted in him ; and she did it. 
Clinging to this rough creature as the last asylum of her 
bleeding heart, she laid her head upon his honest shoul- 
der, and clasped him round his neck, and would have 


EJMBEY AND SCN. 


43 


kneeled down to bless him, but that he divined her pur- 
pose, ‘and held her up like a true man. 

“ Steady ! ” said the captain. “ Steady ! You’re too 
weak to stand, you see, my pretty, and must lie down 
here again. There, there ! ” To see the captain lift her 
on the sofa, and cover her with his coat, would have 
been worth a hundred state sights. u And now,” said 
the captain, u you must take some breakfast, lady lass, 
and the dog shall have some too. And arter that you 
shall go aloft to old Sol Gills’s room, and fall asleep 
there, like a angel.” 

Captain Cuttle patted Diogenes when he made allu- 
sion to him, and Diogenes met that overture graciously, 
half-way. During the administration of the restoratives 
he had clearly been in two minds whether to fly at the 
captain or to offer him his friendship ; and he had ex- 
pressed that conflict of feeling by alternate waggings of 
his tail, and displays of his teeth, with now and then a 
growl or so. But by this time his doubts were all re- 
moved. It was plain that he considered the captain one 
of the most amiable of men, and a man whom it was an 
honor to a dog to know. 

In evidence of these convictions, Diogenes attended on 
the captain while he made some tea and toast, and showed 
a lively interest in his house-keeping. But it was in 
vain for the kind captain to make such preparations for 
Florence, who sorely tried to do some honor to them, 
but could touch nothing, and could only weep and weep 
again. 

“ Well, well ! ” said the compassionate captain, u arter 
turning in, my Heart’s Delight, you’ll get more way 
upon you. Now, I’ll serve out your allowance, my lad.” 
To Diogenes. “ And you shall keep guard on your mis - 
tress aloft.” 


44 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Diogenes, however, although he had been eying his 
intended breakfast with a watering mouth and glistening 
eyes, instead of falling to, ravenously, when it was put 
before him, pricked up his ears, darted to the shop-door, 
and barked there furiously : burrowing with his head at 
the bottom, as if he were bent on mining his way out. 

“ Can there be anybody there ! ” asked Florence, in 
alarm. 

“No, my lady lass,” returned the captain. “Who’d 
stay there, without making any noise ! Keep up a good 
heart, pretty. It’s only people going by.” 

But for all that, Diogenes barked and barked, and 
burrowed and burrowed with pertinacious fury ; and 
whenever he stopped to listen, appeared to receive some 
new conviction into his mind, for he set to, barking and 
burrowing again, a dozen times. Even when he w T as 
persuaded to return to his breakfast, he came jogging 
back to it, with a very doubtful air ; and was off again, 
in another paroxysm, before touching a morsel. 

“ If there should be some one listening and watching,” 
whispered Florence. “ Some one who saw me come — 
who followed me, perhaps.” 

“ It a’n’t the young woman, lady lass, is it ? ” said the 
captain, taken with a bright idea. 

“ Susan ? ” said Florence, shaking her head. “ Ab 
no ! Susan has been gone from me a long time.” 

“ Not deserted, I hope ? ” said the captain. “ Don’t 
say that that there young woman’s run, my pretty ! ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” cried Florence. “ She is one of the 
truest hearts in the world ! ” 

The captain was greatly relieved by this reply, and 
expressed his satisfaction by taking off his hard glazed 
hat, and dabbing his head all over with his handkerchief 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


45 


rolled up like a ball, observing several times, with infinite 
complacency, and with a beaming countenance, that he 
know’d it. 

“ So you’re quiet now, are you, brother ? ” said the 
captain to Diogenes. “ There warn’t nobody there, my 
lady lass, bless you ! ” 

Diogenes was not so sure of that. The door still had 
an attraction for him at intervals ; and he went snuffing 
about it, and growling to himself, unable to forget the 
subject. This incident, coupled with the captain’s ob- 
servation of Florence’s fatigue and faintness, decided 
him to prepare Sol Gills’s chamber as a place of retire- 
ment for her immediately. He therefore hastily betook 
himself to the top of the house, and made the best ar- 
rangement of it that his imagination and his means sug- 
gested. 

It was very clean already ; and the captain, being an 
orderly man, and accustomed to make things ship-shape, 
converted the bed into a couch, by covering it all over 
with a clean white drapery. By a similar contrivance, 
the captain converted the little dressing-table into a 
species of altar, on which he set forth two silver tea- 
spoons, a flower-pot, a telescope, his celebrated watch, a 
pocket-comb, and a song-book, as a small collection of 
rarities, that made a choice appearance. Having dark- 
ened the window, and straightened the pieces of carpet 
on the floor, the captain surveyed these preparations with 
great delight, and descended to the little parlor again, to 
bring Florence to her bower. 

Nothing would induce the captain to believe that it 
was possible for Florence to walk up-stairs. If he could 
have got the idea into his head, he would have considered 
it an outrageous breach of hospitality to allow her to dc 


46 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


so. Florence was too weak to dispute the point, and the 
captain carried her up out of hand, laid her down, and 
covered her with a great watch-coat. 

“ My lady lass ! ” said the captain, “ you’re as safe here 
as if you was at the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral, with the 
ladder cast off. Sleep is what you want, afore all other 
things, and may you be able to show yourself smart with 
that there balsam for the still small woice of a wownded 
mind ! When there’s anything you want, my Heart’s 
Delight, as this here humble house or town can offer, 
pass the word to Ed’ard Cuttle, as’ll stand off and on 
outside that door, and that there man will wibrate with 
joy.” The captain concluded by kissi.ig the hand that 
Florence stretched out to him, with the chivalry of any 
old knight-errant, and walking on tiptoe out of the 
room. 

Descending to the little parlor, Captain Cuttle, after 
holding a hasty council with himself, decided to open the 
shop-door for a few minutes, and satisfy himself that now, 
at all events, there was no one loitering about it. Ac- 
cordingly he set it open, and stood upon the threshold, 
keeping a bright look-out, and sweeping the whole street 
with his spectacles. 

u How de do, Captain Gills ? ” said a voice beside 
him. The captain, looking down, found that he had 
been boarded by Mr. Toots while sweeping the horizon. 

“ How are you, my lad ? ” replied the captain. 

“ Well, I’m pretty well, thank’ee, Captain Gills,” said 
Mr. Toots. “ You know I’m never quite what I could 
wish to be, now. I don’t expect that I ever shall be 
any more.” 

Mr. Toots never approached any nearer than this to 
the great theme of his life, when in conversation with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


47 


Captain Cuttle, on account of the agreement between 
them. 

“ Captain Grills, ” said Mr. Toots, “ if I could have the 
pleasure of a word with you, it’s — it’s rather particu- 
lar.” 

“ Why, you see my lad,” replied the captain, leading 
the way into the parlor, “ I a’n’t what you may call ex- 
actly free this morning ; and therefore if you can clap en 
a bit, I should take it kindly.” 

“ Certainly Captain Gills,” replied Mr. Toots, who 
seldom had any notion of the captain’s meaning. “ To 
clap on, is exactly what I could wish to do. Naturally.” 

“ If so be, my lad,” returned the captain. “ Do it ! ” 

The captain was so impressed by the possession of his 
tremendous secret — by the fact of Miss Dombey being 
at that moment under his roof, while the innocent and 
unconscious Toots sat opposite to him — that a perspira- 
tion broke out on his forehead, and he found it impos- 
sible, while slowly drying the same, glazed hat in hand, 
to keep his eyes off Mr. Toots’s face; Mr. Tocts, who 
himself appeared to have some secret reasons for being in 
a nervous state, was so unspeakably disconcerted by the 
captain’s stare, that after looking at him vacantly for 
some time in silence, and shifting uneasily on his chair, 
he said : 

“ I beg your pardon, Captain Gills, but you don’t hap- 
pen to see anything particular in me, do you ? ” 

“ No, my lad,” returned the captain. “ No.” 

“ Because you know,” said Mr. Toots with a chuckle, 
‘‘ I know I’m wasting away. You needn’t at all mind 
alluding to that. I — I should like it. Burgess and Co. 
have altered my measure, I’m in that state of thinness. 
It’s a gratification to me. I — I’m glad of it. I — I’d 


48 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a great deal rather go into a decline, if I could. I'm a 
mere brute you know, grazing upon the surface of the 
earth, Captain Gills.” 

The more Mr. Toots went on in this way, the more 
the captain was weighed down by his secret, and stared 
at him. What with this cause of uneasiness, and his 
desire to get rid of Mr. Toots, the captain was in such 
a scared and strange condition, indeed, that if he had 
been in conversation with a ghost, he could hardly have 
evinced greater discomposure. 

“ But I was going to say, Captain Gills,” said Mr. 
Toots. “ Happening to be this way early this morning 
— to tell you the truth, I was coming to breakfast with 
you. As to sleep, you know I never sleep now. I 
might be a Watchman, except that I don’t get any pay, 
and he’s got nothing on his mind.” 

“ Carry on, my lad ! ” said the captain, in an admon- 
itory voice. 

“ Certainly, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots. “ Per- 
fectly true ! Happening to be this way early this 
morning (an hour or so ago), and finding the door 
shut ” — 

“ What! were you waiting there, brother?” demanded 
the captain. 

“ Not at all, Captain Gills,” returned Mr. Toots. “ 1 
didn’t stop a moment. I thought you were out. But 
the person said — by the by, you don't keep a dog do 
you, Captain Gills ? ” 

The captain shook his head. 

“ To be sure,” said Mr. Toots, “ that’s exactly what I 
said. I knew you didn’t. There is a dog, Captain 
Gills, connected with — but excuse me. That’s forbid- 
den ground.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


49 


The captain stared at Mr. Toots until he seemed to 
swell to twice his natural size ; and again the perspira- 
tion broke out on the captain’s forehead, when he thought 
of Diogenes taking it into his head to come down and 
make a third in the parlor. 

“ The person said,” continued Mr. Toots, “ that he had 
heard a dog barking in the shop : which I knew couldn’ 
be, and I told him so. But he was as positive as if he 
had seen the dog.” 

“ What person, my lad ? ” inquired the captain. 

•* Why, you see there it is, -Captain Gills,” said Mr. 
Toots, with a perceptible increase in the nervousness 
of his manner. “ It’s not for me to say what may have 
taken place, or what may not have taken place. In- 
deed, I don’t know. I get mixed up with all sorts 
of things that I don’t quite understand, and I think 

there’s something rather weak in my in my head, 

in short.” 

The captain nodded his own, as a mark of assent. 

“But the person said, as we were walking away,” 
continued Mr. Toots, “ that you knew what, under ex- 
isting circumstances, might occur — he said ‘ might,’ very 
strongly — and that if you were requested to prepare 
yourself, you would, no doubt, come prepared.” 

“ Person, my lad ! ” the captain repeated. 

“ I don’t know what person, I’m sure, Captain Gills,” 
replied Mr. Toots, “ I haven’t the least idea. But com- 
ing to the door, I found him waiting there ; and he said 
was I coming back again, and I said yes ; and he said 
did I know you, and I said, yes, I had the pleasure of 
your acquaintance — you had given me the pleasure of 
your acquaintance, after some persuasion ; and he said, 
if that was the case, would I say to you what I have said, 
VOL. iv. 4 


50 


DOMBEV AND SON. 


about existing circumstances and coming prepared, and 
as soon as ever I saw you, would I ask you to step round 
the corner, if it was only for one minute, on most impor- 
tant business, to Mr. Brogley’s the broker’s. Now, I 
tell you what, Captain Gills — whatever it is, I am con- 
vinced it’s very important; and if you like to step round 
now, I’ll wait here till you come back.” 

The captain, divided between his fear of compromis- 
ing Florence in some way by not going, and his horror 
of leaving Mr. Toots in possession of the house with a 
chance of finding out the- secret, was a spectacle of men- 
tal disturbance that even Mr. Toots could not be blind 
to. But that young gentleman, considering his nautical 
friend as merely in a state of preparation for the inter- 
view he was going to have, was quite satisfied, and did 
not review his own discreet conduct without chuckles. 

At length the captain decided, as the lesser of two 
evils, to run round to Brogley’s the broker’s : previ- 
ously locking the door that communicated with the up- 
per part of the house, and putting the key in his pocket. 
“ If so be,” said the captain to Mr. Toots, with not a lit- 
tle shame and hesitation, “ as you’ll excuse my doing ot 
it, brother.” 

“ Captain Gills,” returned Mr. Toots, “ whatever you 
do, is satisfactory to me.” 

The captain thanked him heartily, and promising to 
come back in less than five minutes, went out in quest 
of the person who had intrusted Mr. Toots with this 
mysterious message. Poor Mr. Toots, left to himself, 
lay down upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclined 
there last, and, gazing up at the skylight and resigning 
himself to visions of Miss Dombey, lost all heed of time 
and place. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


51 


It was as well that he did so ; for although the captain 
was not gone long, he was gone much longer than he had 
proposed. When he came back, he was very pale in- 
deed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he had 
been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the fac- 
ulty of speech, until he had been to the cupboard and 
taken a dram of rum from the case-bottle, when he 
fetched a deep breath, and sat down in a chair with his 
hand before his face. 

“ Captain Gills,” said Toots, kindly, “ I hope and trust 
there’s nothing wrong ? ” 

44 Thank’ee my lad, not a bit,” said the captain. “ Quit'* 
contrairy.” 

“ You have the appearance of being overcome, Cap- 
tain Gills,” observed Mr. Toots. 

“ Why my lad, I am took aback,” the captain admitted. 
“ I am.” 

44 Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills ? ” inquired 
Mr. Toots. 44 If there is, make use of me.” 

The captain removed his hand from his face, looked 
at him with a remarkable expression of pity and ten- 
derness, and took him by the hand, and shook it 
hard. 

44 No thank’ee,” said the captain. 44 Nothing. Only 
HI take it as a favor if you’ll part company for the 
present. I believe, brother,” wringing his hand again, 
44 that, after Wal’r, and on a different model, you’re as 
good a lad as ever stepped.” 

“ Upon my word and honor Captain Gills,” returned 
Mr. Toots, giving the captain’s hand a preliminary slap 
before shaking it again, 44 it’s delightful to me to possess 
your good opinion. Thank’ee.” 

44 And bear a hand and cheer up,” said the captain, 


52 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


patting him on the back. “ What ! There’s more than 
one sweet creetur in the world ! ” 

“ Not to me, Captain Gills,” replied Mr. Toots gravely, 
“ Not to me, I assure you. The state of my feelings 
towards Miss Dombey is of that unspeakable descrip- 
tion, that my heart is a desert island, and she lives in it 
alone. I’m getting more used up every day, and I’m 
proud to be so. If you could see my legs when I take 
my boots off, you’d form some idea of what unrequited 
affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I don’t 
take it, for I don’t wish to have any tone whatever 
given to my constitution. I’d rather not. This, how- 
ever, is forbidden ground. Captain Gills, good-by ! ” 

Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of 
Mr. Toots’s farewell, locked the door behind him, and 
shaking his head with the same remarkable expression 
of pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with be- 
fore, went up to see if Florence wanted him. 

There was an entire change in the captain’s face as 
e went up-stairs. He wiped his eyes with his hand- 
kerchief, and he polished the bridge of his nose with 
his sleeve as he had done already that morning, but his 
face was absolutely changed. Now, he might have been 
thought supremely happy ; now, he might have been 
thought sad ; but the kind of gravity that sat upon his 
features was quite new to them, and was as great an 
improvement to them as if they had undergone seme 
sublimating process. 

He knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence’s door, 
.wice or thrice ; but, receiving no answer, ventured 
first to peep in, and then to enter : emboldened to take 
the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar recognition of 
Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


53 


of her couch, wagged his tail, and winked his eyes at 
the captain, without being at the trouble of getting 
up. 

She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her sleep ; 
and Captain Cuttle, with a perfect awe of her youth and 
beauty, and her sorrow, raised her head, and adjusted 
the coat that covered her, where it had fallen off, and 
darkened the window a little more that she might sleep 
on, and crept out again, and took his post of w r atch upon 
the stairs. All this, with a touch and tread, as light as 
Florence’s own. 

Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not 
easy of decision, which is the more beautiful evidence 
of the Almighty’s goodness — the delicate lingers that 
are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of touch, 
and made to minister to pain and grief, or the rough 
hard Captain Cuttle hand, that the heart teaches, guides, 
and softens in a moment ! 

Florence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her home- 
lessness and orphanage, and Captain Cuttle watched 
upon the stairs. A louder sob or moan than usual, 
brought him sometimes to her door ; but by degrees 
she slept more peacefully, and the captain’s watch was 
undisturbed. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


5 4 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE MIDSHIPMAN MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

It was long before Florence awoke. The day waa 
in its prime, the day was in its wane, and still, uneasy 
in mind and body, she slept on ; unconscious of her 
strange bed, of the noise and turmoil in the street, and 
of the light that shone outside the shaded window. Per- 
fect unconsciousness of what had happened in the home 
that existed no more, even the deep slumber of exhaus- 
tion could not produce. Some undefined and mournful 
recollection of it, dozing uneasily, but never sleeping, 
pervaded all her rest. A dull sorrow, like a half-lulled 
sense of pain, was always present to her ; and her pale 
cheek was oftener wet with tears than the honest cap- 
tain, softly putting in his head from time to time at 
the half-closed door, could have desired to see it. 

The sun was getting low in the west, and, glancing 
out of a red mist, pierced with its rays opposite loop- 
holes and pieces of fret-work in the spires of city 
churches, as if with golden arrows that struck through 
and through them — and far away athwart the river 
and its flat banks, it was gleaming like a path of fire — 
and out at sea it was irradiating sails of ships — and, 
looked towards, from quiet churchyards, upon hill-tops 
in the country, it was steeping distant prospects in a 
flush and glow that seemed to mingle earth and sky 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


55 


together in one glorious suffusion — vhen Florence, 
opening her heavy eyes, lay at first, looking without 
interest or recognition at the unfamiliar walls around 
her, and listening in the same regardless manner to the 
noises in the street. But presently she started up upon 
her couch, gazed round with a surprised and vacant look, 
and recollected all. 

“ My pretty,” said the captain, knocking at the door, 
“ what cheer ! ” 

“ Dear friend,” cried Florence, hurrying to him, “ ia 
it you?” 

The captain felt so much pride in the name, and was 
so pleased by the gleam of pleasure in her face when 
she saw him, that he kissed his hook, by way of reply, 
in speechless gratification. 

“ What cheer, bright di’mond ! ” said the captain. 

u I have surely slept very long,” returned Florence. 
u When did I come here ? Yesterday ? ” 

“This here blessed day, my lady lass,” replied the 
captain. 

u Has there been no night ? Is it still day ? ” asked 
Florence. 

“ Getting on for evening now, my pretty,” said the 
captain, drawing back the curtain of the window. 
“ See ! ” j 

Florence, with her hand upon the captain’s arm, so 
sorrowful and timid, and the captain with his rough face 
and burly figure, so quietly protective of her, stood in 
the rosy light of the bright evening sky, without say- 
ing a word. However strange the form of speech into 
which he might have fashioned the feeling, if he had 
had to give it utterance, the captain felt, as sensibly 
as the most eloquent of men could have done, that there 


56 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


was something in the tranquil time and in its softened 
beauty that would make the wounded heart of Florence 
overflow ; and that it was better that such tears should 
have their way. So not a word spake Captain Cuttle. 
But when he felt his arm clasped closer, and when he 
felt the lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself 
against his homely coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it 
gently with his rugged hand, and understood it, and was 
understood. 

“ Better now, my pretty ! ” said the captain. “ Cheer- 
ily, cheerily ; I’ll go down below, and get some dinner 
ready. Will you come down of your own self, arter- 
wards, pretty, or shall Ed’ard Cuttle come and fetch 
you ? ” 

As Florence assured him that she was quite able to 
walk down-stairs, the captain, though evidently doubt- 
ful of his own hospitality in permitting it, left her to do 
so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at the 
fire in the little parlor. To achieve his cookery with 
the greater skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his 
wristbands, and put on his glazed hat, without which 
assistant he never applied himself to any nice or difficult 
undertaking. 

After cooling her aching head and burning face in 
the fresh water which the captain’s care had provided 
for her. while she slept, Florence went to the little 
mirror to bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew 
— in a moment, for she shunned it instantly — that on 
her breast there was the darkening mark of an angry 
hand. 

Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight ; she was 
ashamed and afraid of it ; but it moved her to no anger 
against him. Homeless and fatherless, she forgave him 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


57 


everything ; hardly thought that she had need to forgive 
him, or that she did ; but she fled from the idea of him 
as she had fled from the reality, and he was utterly gone 
and lost. There was no such Being in the world. 

What to do, or where to live, Florence — poor, in- 
experienced girl ! — could not yet consider. She had 
indistinct dreams of finding, a long way off, some little 
sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and 
to whom, under some feigned name, she might attach 
herself, and who would grow up in their happy home, 
and marry, and be good to their old governess, and 
perhaps intrust her, in time, with the education of their 
own daughters. And she thought how strange and 
sorrowful it would be, thus to become a gray -haired 
woman, carrying her secret to the grave, when Florence 
Dombey was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded 
to her now. She only knew that she had no Father 
upon earth, and she said so many times, with her sup- 
pliant head hidden from all, but her Father who was 
in Heaven. 

Her little stock of money amounted to but a few 
guineas. With a part of this, it would be necessary to 
buy some clothes, for she had none but those she wore. 
She was too desolate to think how soon her money 
would be gone — too much a child in worldly matters 
to be greatly troubled on that score yet, even if her 
other trouble had been less. She tried to calm her 
thoughts and stay her tears ; to quiet the hurry in her 
throbbing head, and bring herself to believe that what 
had happened were but the events of a few hours ago, 
instead of weeks or months, as they appeared ; and went 
■lown to her kind protector. 

The captain had spread the cloth with great care. 


58 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and was making some egg-sauce in a little saucepan : 
basting the fowl from time to time during the process 
with a strong interest, as it turned and browned on a 
string before the fire. Having propped Florence up 
with cushions on the sofa, which was already wheeled 
into a warm corner for her greater comfort, the captain 
pursued his cooking with extraordinary skill, making 
hot gravy in a second little saucepan, boiling a handful 
of potatoes in a third, never forgetting the egg-sauce in 
the first, and making an impartial round of basting and 
stirring with the most useful of spoons every minute. 
Besides these cares, the captain had to keep his eye on 
a diminutive frying-pan, in which some sausages were 
hissing and bubbling in a most musical manner; and 
there was never such a radiant cook as the captain 
looked, in the height and heat of these functions : it 
being impossible to say whether his face or his glazed 
hat shone the brighter. 

The dinner being at length quite ready, Captain Cut- 
tie dished and served it up, with no less dexterity than 
he had cooked it. He then dressed for dinner, by taking 
off his glazed hat and putting on his coat. That done, 
he wheeled the table close against Florence on the sofa, 
said grace, unscrewed his hook, screwed his fork into its 
place, and did the honors of the table. 

“ My lady lass,” said the captain, “ cheer up, and try 
to eat a deal. Stand by, my deary ! Liver wing it is. 
Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And potato ! ” all which the 
captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and, pouring 
hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set before 
his cherished guest. 

“ The whole row o* dead lights is up, for’ard, lady lass ” 
observed the captain, encouragingly, “and everythink is 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


5H 


made snug. Try and pick a bit, my pretty. If W alb 
was here” — 

“Ah ! If I had him for my brother now ! ” cried 
Florence. 

“ Don’t ! don’t take on, my pretty ! ” said the captain ; 
“ awast to obleege me ! He was your nat’ral born friend 
like, warn’t he Pet ? ” 

Florence had no words to answer with. She only 
said, “Oh, dear, dear Paul! oh Walter!” 

“ The wery planks she walked on,” murmured the cap- 
tain, looking at her drooping face, “ was as high esteemed 
by Wal’r, as the water brooks is by the hart which never 
rejices ! I see him now, the wery day as he was rated 
on them Dombey books, a-speaking of her with his face 
a-glistening with doo — leastways with his modest senti- 
ments — like a new-blowed rose, at dinner. Well, well ! 
If our poor Wal’r was here, my lady lass — or if he 
could be — for he’s drownded, a’n’t he ? ” 

Florence shook her head. 

“ Yes, yes ; drownded,” said the captain, soothingly ; 
“ as I was saying, if he could be here he’d beg and pray 
of you, my precious, to pick a leetle bit, with a look-out 
for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold your own, 
my lady lass, as if it was for Wal’r’s sake, and lay your 
pretty head to the wind.” 

Florence essayed to eat a morsel, for the captain’s 
pleasure. The captain, meanwhile, who seemed to have 
quite forgotten his own dinner, laid down his knife and 
fork, and drew his chair to the sofa. 

“ Wal’r was a trim lad, warn’t he, precious? ” said the 
captain, after sitting for some time silently rubbing his 
chin, with his eyes fixed upon her, “ and a brave lad, 
and a good lad ? ” 


50 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Florence tearfully assented. 

“ And he s drownded, Beauty, a’n’t he ? ” said the cap- 
tain, in a soothing voice. 

Florence could not but assent again. 

“ He was older than you, my lady lass,” pursued th? 
captain, “ but you was like two children together, it 
first ; warn’t you ? ” 

Florence answered “Yes.” 

“ And Wal’r’s drownded,” said the captain. “ AVt 
he ? ” 

The repetition of this inquiry was a curious source of 
consolation, but it seemed to be one to Captain Cuttle, 
for he came back to it again and again. Florence, fain 
to push from her her untasted dinner, and to lie back on 
her sofa, gave him her hand, feeling that she had disap- 
pointed him, though truly wishing to have pleased him 
after all his trouble, but he held it in his own (which 
shook as he held it), and, appearing to have quite for- 
gotten all about the dinner and her want of appetite, 
went on growling at intervals, in a ruminating tone of 
sympathy, “ Poor Wal’r. Ay, ay ! Drownded. AVt 
he ? ” And always waited for her answer, in which the 
great point of these singular reflections appeared to con- 
sist. 

The fowl and the sausages were cold, and the gravy 
and the egg-sauce stagnant, before the captain remem- 
bered that they were on the board, and fell to with the 
assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly de- 
spatched the banquet. The captain’s delight and wonder 
at the quiet housewifery of Florence in assisting to clear 
the table, arrange the parlor, and sweep up the hearth — 
only to be equalled by the fervency of his protest when 
she begat to assist him — were gradually raised to that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


61 


degree, that at last he could not choose but do nothing 
himself, and stand looking at her as if she were some 
Fairy, daintily performing these offices for him ; the red 
rim on his forehead glowing again, in his unspeakable 
admiration. 

But when Florence, taking down his pipe from the 
mantel-shelf gave it into his hand, and entreated him to 
smoke it, the good captain was so bewildered by her at- 
tention that he held it as if he had never held a pipe in 
aii his life. Likewise, when Florence, looking into the 
little cupboard, took out the case-bottle and mixed a per- 
fect glass of grog for him, unasked, and set it at his 
elbow, his ruddy nose turned pale, he felt himself so 
graced and honored. When he had filled his pipe in an 
absolute re very of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for 
him — the captain having no power to object, or to pre- 
vent her — and resuming her place on the old sofa, 
looked at him with a smile so loving and so grateful, a 
smile that showed him so plainly how her forlorn heart 
turned to him, as her face did, through grief, that the 
smoke of the pipe got into the captain’s throat and made 
him cough, and got into the captain’s eyes, and made 
them blink and water. 

The manner in which the captain tried to make be- 
lieve that the cause of these effects lay hidden in the 
pipe itself, and the way in which he looked into the 
bowl for it, and not finding it there, pretended to blow it 
out of the stem, was wonderfully pleasant. The pipe 
soon getting into better condition, he fell into that state 
of repose becoming a good smoker ; but sat with his 
eyes fixed on Florence, and, with a beaming placidity 
not to be described, and stopping every now and then to 
discharge a little cloud from his lips, slowly puffed it 


62 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


forth, as if it were a scroll coming out of his mouth, 
bearing the legend “ Poor Wal’r, ay, ay. Drownded, 
a’n’t he ? ” after which he would resume his smoking 
with infinite gentleness. 

Unlike as they were externally — and there could 
scarcely be a more decided contrast than between Flor- 
ence in her delicate youth and beauty, and Captain Cut- 
tie with his knobby face, his great broad weather-beaten 
person, and his gruff voice — in simple innocence of the 
world’s ways and the world’s perplexities and dangers, 
they were nearly on a level. No child could have sur- 
passed Captain Cuttle in inexperience of everything but 
wind and weather ; in simplicity, credulity, and generous 
trustfulness. Faith, hope, and charity, shared his whole 
nature among them. An odd sort of romance, perfectly 
unimaginative, yet perfectly unreal, and subject to no 
considerations of worldly prudence or practicability, was 
the only partner they had in his character. As the cap- 
tain sat, and smoked, and looked at Florence, God 
knows what impossible pictures, in which she was the 
principal figure, presented themselves to his mind. 
Equally vague and uncertain, though not so sanguine, 
were her own thoughts of the life before her ; and even 
as her tears made prismatic colors in the light she gazed 
at, so, through her new and heavy grief, she already saw 
a rainbow faintly shining in the far-off sky. A wander- 
ing princess and a good monster in a story-book might 
have sat by the fireside, and talked as Captain Cuttle 
and poor Florence thought — and not have looked very 
much unlike them. 

The captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of 
any difficulty in retaining Florence, or of any responsi- 
bility thereby incurred Having put up the shutters and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


63 


locked the door, he was quite satisfied on this head. If 
she had been a Ward in Chancery, it would have made 
no difference at all to Captain Cuttle. He was the last 
man in the world to be troubled by any such consider- 
ations 

So the captain smoked his pipe very comfortably, and 
Florence and he meditated after their own manner. 
When the pipe was out, they had some tea ; and then 
Florence entreated him to take her to some neighboring 
shop, where she could buy the few necessaries she imme- 
diately wanted. It being quite dark, the captain con- 
sented : peeping carefully out first, as he had been wont 
to do in his time of hiding from Mrs. MacStinger ; and 
arming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal 
to arms being rendered necessary by any unforeseen cir- 
cumstance. 

The pride Captain Cuttle had, in giving his arm to 
Florence, and escorting her some two or three hundred 
yards, keeping a bright look-out all the time, and attract- 
ing the attention of every one who passed them, by his 
great vigilance and numerous precautions, was extreme. 
Arrived at the shop, the captain felt it a point of deli- 
cacy to retire during the making of the purchases, as 
they were to consist of wearing apparel ; but he pre- 
viously deposited his tin canister on the counter, and in- 
forming the young lady of the establishment that it con- 
tained fourteen pound two, requested her, in case that 
amount of property should not be sufficient to defray the 
expenses of his niece’s little outfit — at the word “ niece ” 
he bestowed a most significant look on Florence, accom* 
panied with pantomime, expressive of sagacity and mys- 
tery — to have the goodness to “ sing out,” and he would 
make up the difference from his pocket. Casuafv con* 


6't 


DOM BEY AND SON. 


suiting his big watch, as a deep means of dazzling the 
establishment, and impressing it with a sense of property, 
the captain then kissed his hook to his niece, and retired 
outside the window, where it was a choice sight to see 
his great face looking in from time to time, amcng the 
silks and ribbons, with an obvious misgiving that Flor- 
ence had been spirited away by a back-door. 

“ Dear Captain Cuttle,” said Florence, when she came 
out with a parcel, the size of which greatly disappointed 
the captain, who had expected to see a porter following 
with a bale of goods, “ I don’t want this money, indeed. 
I have not spent any of it. I have money of my own/’ 

“ My lady lass,” returned the baffled captain, looking 
straight down the street before them, “ take care on it 
for me, will you be so good, till such time as I ask ye 
for it ? ” 

“ May I put it back in its usual place,” said Florence, 
“ and keep it there ? ” 

The captain was not at all gratified by this proposal, 
but he answered, “ Ay, ay, put it anywheres, my lady 
lass, so long as you know where to find it again. It a’n’t 
o’ no use to me,” said the captain. “ I wonder I haven’t 
chucked it away afore now.” 

The captain was quite disheartened for the moment, 
but he revived at the first touch of Florence’s arm, and 
they returned with the same precautions as they had 
come ; the captain opening the door of the little Midship- 
man’s berth, and diving in, with a suddenness which his 
great practice only could have taught him. During 
Florence’s slumber in the morning, he had engaged the 
daughter of an elderly lady, who usually sat under a 
olue umbrella in Leadenhall-market, selling poultry, to 
come and put her room in order, and render her any 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


65 


little services she required ; and this damsel now appear- 
ing, Florence found everything about her as convenient 
and orderly, if not as handsome, as in the terrible dream 
she had once called Home. 

When they were alone again, the captain insisted on 
her eating a slice of dry toast, and drinking a glass of 
spiced negus (which he made to perfection) ; and, en- 
couraging her with every kind word and inconsequential 
quotation he could possibly think of, led her up-stairs to 
her bedroom. But he too had something on his mind, 
and was not easy in his manner. 

“ Good-night, dear heart,” said Captain Cuttle to her 
at her chamber-door. 

Florence raised her lips to his face, and kissed 
him. 

At any other time the captain would have been over- 
balanced by such a token of her affection and gratitude ; 
but now, although he was very sensible of it, he looked 
in her face with even more uneasiness than he had testi- 
fied before, and seemed unwilling to leave her. 

“ Poor Wal’r ! ” said the captain. 

“ Poor, poor Walter !” sighed Florence. 

“ Drownded, a’n’t he ? ” said the captain. 

Florence shook her head, and sighed. 

“ Good-night, iny lady lass ! ” said Captain Cuttle, 
putting out his hand. 

“ God bless you, dear, kind friend ! ” 

But the captain lingered still. 

“ Is anything the matter, dear Captain Cuttle ?” said 
Florence, easily alarmed in her then state of mind. 
4 Have you anything to tell me ? ” 

“ To tell you, lady lass ! ” replied the captain, meeting 
ber eyes in confusion. “ No, no ; what should I have to 
vol. iv. 5 


66 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


tell you, pretty ! You don’t expect as I’ve got any- 
thing good to tell you, sure ? ” 

No ! ” said Florence, shaking her head. 

The captain looked at her wistfully, and repeated 
u No,” — still lingering and still showing embarrass- 
ment. 

u Poor Wal’r!” said the captain. “ My Wal’r, as I 
used to call you! Old Sol Gills’s nevy ! Welcome to 
all as knowed you, as the flowers in May ! Where 
are you got to, brave boy ! Drownded, a’n’t he ? ” 

Concluding his apostrophe with this abrupt appeal to 
Florence, the captain bade her good-night, and descended 
the stairs, while Florence remained at the top, holding 
the candle out to light him down. He was lost in the 
obscurity, and, judging from the sound of his receding 
footsteps, was in the act of turning into the little parlor, 
when his head and shoulders unexpectedly emerged 
again, as from the deep, apparently for no other pur- 
pose than to repeat, “ Drownded, a’n’t he, pretty ? ” 
For when he had said that in a tone of tender condo- 
lence, he disappeared. 

Florence was very sorry that she should unwittingly, 
though naturally, have awakened these associations in 
the mind of her protector, by taking refuge there ; and 
sitting down before the little table where the captain had 
arranged the telescope and song-book, and those other 
rarities, thought of Walter, «and of all that was connected 
with him in the past, until she could have almost wished 
to lie down on her bed and fade away. But in her lonely 
yearning to the dead whom she had loved, no thought of 
home — no possibility of going back — no presentation 
of it as yet existing, or as sheltering her father — once 
entered her thoughts. She had seen the murder done. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


67 


In the last lingering natural aspect in which she had 
cherished him through so much, he had been torn out of 
her heart, defaced, and slain. The thought of it was so 
appalling to her, that she covered her eyes, and shrunk 
trembling from the least remembrance of the deed, or of 
the cruel hand that did it. If her fond heart could have 
held his image after that, it must have broken ; but it 
o:uld not ; and the void was filled with a wild dread, that 
fled from all confronting with its shattered fragments — 
with such a dread as could have risen out of nothing but 
the depths of such a love, so wronged. 

She dared not look into the glass ; for the sight of the 
darkening mark upon her bosom made her afraid of her- 
self, as if she bore about her something wicked. She 
covered it up, with a hasty, faltering hand, and in the 
dark ; and laid her weary head down, weeping. 

The captain did not go to bed for a long time. He 
walked to and fro in the shop, and in the little parlor, for 
a full hour, and, appearing to have composed himself by 
that exercise, sat down with a grave and thoughtful face,' 
and read out of a Prayer-book the forms of prayer ap- 
pointed to be used at sea. These were not easily dis- 
posed of ; the good captain being a mighty slow, gruff* 
reader, and frequently stopping at a hard word to give 
himself such encouragement as “ Now, my lad ! With 
a will!” or, “Steady, Ed’ard Cuttle, steady!” which 
had a great effect in helping him out of any difficulty. 
Moreover, his spectacles greatly interfered with his 
powers of vision. But notwithstanding these drawbacks, 
the captain, being heartily in earnest, read the service 
to the very last line, and with genuine feeling too ; and 
approving of it very much when he had done, turned in 
under the counter (but not before he had been up-stairs, 


68 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and listened at Florence’s door), with a serene breast, 
and a most benevolent visage. 

The captain turned out several times in the course of 
the night, to assure himself that his charge was resting 
quietly ; and once, at daybreak, found that she was 
awake : for she called to know if it were he, on hear- 
ing footsteps near her door. 

44 Yes, my lady lass,” replied the captain, in a growl- 
ing whisper. 44 Are you all right, di’mond?” 

Florence thanked him, and said 44 Yes.” 

The captain could not lose so favorable an opportunity 
of applying his mouth to the key-hole, and calling through 
it, like a hoarse breeze, 44 Poor Wal’r! Drownded, a’n’t 
he ? ” After which he withdrew, and turning in again, 
slept till seven o’clock. 

Nor was he free from his uneasy and embarrassed 
manner all that day ; though Florence, being busy with 
her needle in the little parlor, was more calm and tran- 
quil than she had been on the day preceding. Almost 
•always when she raised her eyes from her work, she 
observed the captain looking at her, and thoughtfully 
stroking his chin ; and he so often hitched his arm-chair 
close to her, as if he were going to say something very 
confidential, and hitched it away again, as not being able 
to make up his mind how to begin, that in the course of 
the day he cruised completely round the parlor in that 
frail bark, and more than once went ashore against the 
wainscot or the closet-door, in a very distressed con- 
dition. • 

It was not until the twilight that Captain Cuttle, fairly 
dropping anchor, at last, by the side of Florence, began 
to talk at all connectedly. But when the light of the fire 
was shining on the walls and ceiling of the little room, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


G9 


and on the tea-board and the cups and saucers that were 
ranged upon the table, and on her calm face turned tow- 
ards the flame, and reflecting it in the tears that filled 
her eyes, the captain broke a long silence thus * 

“You never was at sea, my own?” 

“ No,” replied Florence. 

“ Ay,” said the captain reverentially ; “ it’s a almighty 
element. There’s wonders in the deep, my pretty. 
Think on it when the winds is roaring and the waves 
is rowling. Think on it when the stormy nights is so 
pitch dark,” said the captain, solemnly holding up his 
hook, “ as you can’t see your hand afore you, except- 
ing when the wiwid lightning reweals the same ; and 
when you drive, drive, drive through the storm and 
dark, as if you was a driving, head on, to the world 
without end, evermore, amen, and when found making 
a note of. Them’s the times, my beauty, when a man 
may say to his messmate (previously a-overhauling of 
the wollume), * A stiff nor-wester’s blowing, Bill ; hark, 
don’t you hear it roar now ! Lord help ’em, how I pitys 
all unhappy folks ashore now!’” Which quotation, as 
particularly applicable to the terrors of the ocean, the 
captain delivered in a most impressive manner, conclud- 
ing with a sonorous “ Stand by ! ” 

“ Were you ever in a dreadful storm ? ” asked Flor- 
ence. 

“ Why ay, my lady lass, I’ve seen my share of bad 
weather,” said the captain, tremulously wiping his head, 
w and I’ve had my share of knocking about ; but — but 
it a’ n’t of myself as I was a-meaning to speak. Our 
dear boy,” drawing closer to her, “ Wal’r, darling, as was 
drownded.” 

The captain spoke in such a trembling voice, and 


ro 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


looked at Florence with a face so pale and agitated, that 
she clung to his hand in affright. 

“ Your face is changed,” cried Florence. Cl You are 
altered in a moment. What is it ? Dear Captain Cut- 
tie, it turns me cold to see you ! ” 

u What ! Lady lass,” returned the captain, support- 
ing her with his hand. “ Don’t be took aback. No, 
no ? Airs well, all’s well, my dear. As I was a-saying 
— Wal’r — he’s — he’s drownded. A’n’t he ? ” 

Florence looked at him intently ; her color came and 
went ; and she laid her hand upon her breast. 

“ There’s perils and dangers on the deep, my beauty,” 
said the captain ; “ and over many a brave ship, and 
many and many a bould heart, the secret waters has 
closed up, and never told no tales. But there’s escapes 
upon the deep, too, and sometimes one man out of a 
score, — ah ! maybe out of a hundred, pretty, — has 
been saved by the mercy of God, and come home after 
being give over for dead, and told of all hands lost. 
I — I know a story, Heart’s Delight,” stammered the 
captain, “ o’ this natur, as was told to me once ; and 
being on this here tack, and you and me sitting alone 
by the fire, maybe you’d like to hear me tell it. Would 
you, deary ? ” 

Florence, trembling with an agitation which she could 
not control or understand, involuntarily followed his 
glance, which went behind her into the shop, where a 
lamp was burning. The instant that she turned her 
head, the captain sprung out of his chair, and interposed 
his hand. 

“ There’s nothing there, my beauty,” said the captain. 
u Don’t look there ! ” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Florence. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


71 


The captain murmured something about its being dull 
that way, and about the fire being cheerful. He drew 
the door ajar, which had been standing open until now, 
and resumed his seat. Florence followed him with her 
eyes, and looked intently in his face. 

“ The story was about a ship, my lady lass,” began 
the captain, " as sailed out of the Port of London, with 
a fair wind and in fair weather, bound for — don’t be 
took aback, my lady lass, she was only out’ard bound, 
pretty, only out’ard bound ! ” 

The expression on Florence’s face alarmed the cap- 
tain, who was himself very hot and flurried, and showed 
scarcely less agitation than she did. 

“ Shall I go on, Beauty ? ” said the captain. 

“ Yes, yes, pray ! ” cried Florence. 

The captain made a gulp as if to get down something 
that was sticking in his throat, and nervously proceeded • 
“ That there unfort’nate ship met with such foul 
weather, out at sea, as don’t blow once in twenty year, 
my darling. There wms hurricanes ashore as tore up 
forests and blowed down towns, and there was gales 
at sea in them latitudes, as not tjie stoutest wessel 
ever launched could live in. Day arter day that there 
unfort’nate ship behaved noble, I’m told, and did her 
duty brave, my pretty, but at one blow a’most her bul- 
warks was stove in, her masts and rudder carried away, 
her best men swept overboard, and she left to the mercy 
of the storm as had no mercy but blowed harder and 
harder yet, while the waves dashed over her, and beat 
her in, and every time they come a-thundering at her, 
broke her like a shell. Every black spot in every 
mountain of water that rolled away was a bit o’ the 
ship’s life or a living man, and so she went to pieces 


72 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Beauty, and no grass will never grow upon the graves 
of them as manned that ship.” 

44 They were not all lost ! ” cried Florence. 44 Some 
were saved ! — Was one ? ” 

44 Aboard o’ that there unfort’nate wessel,” said the 
captain, rising from his chair, and clinching his hand 
with prodigious energy and exultation, 44 was a lad, a 
gallant lad — as I’ve heerd tell — that had loved, when 
he was a boy, to read and talk about brave actions in 
shipwrecks — I’ve heerd him ! I’ve heerd him ! — and 
he remembered of ’em in his hour of need ; for when 
the stoutest hearts and oldest hands was hove down, he 
was firm and cheery. It warn’t the want of objects to 

like and love ashore that gave him courage, it was 

his nat’ral mind. I’ve seen it in his face, when he 
was no more than a child — ay, many a time ! — and 

when I thought it nothing but his good looks, bless 

him ! ” 

44 And was he saved ! ” cried Florence. 44 Was he 
saved ! ” 

44 That brave lad,” said the captain, — 44 look at me, 
pretty ! Don’t look round ” — 

Florence had hardly power to repeat, 44 Why not ? w 
44 Because there’s nothing there, my deary,” said the 
captain. 44 Don’t be took aback, pretty creetur ! Don’t, 
for the sake of Wal’r, as was dear to all on us ! That 
there lad,” said the captain, 44 arter working with the 
best, and standing by the faint-hearted, and never mak- 
ing no complaint nor sign of fear, and keeping up a 
spiiit in all hands that made ’em honor him as if he’d 
been a admiral, — that lad, along with the second-mate 
and one seaman, was left, of all the beatin’ hearts that 
went aboard that ship, the only living creeturs — lashed 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


73 


to a fragment of the wreck, and drifting on the stormy 
sea.” 

“ Were they saved ! ” cried Florence. 

“ Days and nights they drifted on them endless wa- 
ters,” said the captain, “ until at last — No ! Don’t look 
that way, pretty ! — a sail bore down upon ’em, and they 
was, by the Lord’s mercy, took aboard : two living, and 
one dead.” 

“ Which of them was dead? ” cried Florence. 

Not the lad I speak on,” said the captain. 

“ Thank God ! oh thank God ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” returned the captain hurriedly. “ Don’t 
be took aback ! A minute more, my lady lass ! with a 
good heart ! — aboard that ship, they went a long voy- 
age, right away across the chart (for there warn’t no 
touching nowhere), and on that voyage the seaman as 
was picked up with him died. But he was spared, 
and ” — 

The captain, without knowing what he did, had cut a 
slice of bread from the loaf, and put it on his hook 
(which was his usual toasting-fork), on which he now 
held it to the fire ; looking behind Florence with great 
emotion in his face, and suffering the bread to blaze and 
burn like fuel. 

“ Was spared,” repeated Florence, “ and ” ? — 

“And come home in that ship,” said the captain, still 
looking in the same direction, “ and — don’t be fright- 
ened, pretty — and landed ; and one morning come cau- 
tiously to his own door to take a obserwation, knowing 
that his friends would think him drownded, when he 
sheered off at the unexpected ” — 

“ At the unexpected barking of a dog ? ” cried Flor- 
ence, quickly. 


74 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“Yes,” roared the captain. “ Steady, darling ! cour- 
age ! Don’t look round yet. See there ! upon the 
wall ! ” 

There was the shadow of a man upon the wall close 
to her. She started up, looked round, and with a pierc- 
ing cry, saw Walter Gay behind her. 

She had no thought of him but as a brother, a brother 
rescued from the grave ; a shipwrecked brother saved 
and at her side ; and rushed into his arms. In all the 
world, he seemed to be her hope, her comfort, refuge, 
natural protector. “ Take care of Walter, I was fond 
of Walter ! ” The dear remembrance of the plaintive 
voice that said so, rushed upon her soul, like music in 
the night. “ Oh welcome home, dear Water. Welcome 
to this stricken breast ! ” She felt the words, although 
she could not utter them, and held him in her pure 
embrace. 

Captain Cuttle, in a fit of delirium, attempted to wipe 
his head with the blackened toast upon his hook ; and 
finding it an uncongenial substance for the purpose, put 
it into the crown of his glazed hat, put the glazed hat 
on with some difficulty, essayed to sing a verse of Lovely 
Peg, broke down at the first word, and retired into the 
shop, whence he presently came back, express, with a 
face all flushed and besmeared, and the starch com 
pletely taken out of his shirt-collar, to say these words . 

“ Wal’r, my lad, here is a little bit of property as I 
should wish to make over, jintly ! ” 

The captain hastily produced the big watch, the tea 
spoons, the sugar-tongs, and the canister, and laying 
them on the table, swept them with his great hand into 
Walter’s hat ; but in handing that singular strong box 
to Walter, he was so overcome again, that he was fain 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


7 3 

lo make another retreat into the shop, and absent him- 
self for a longer space of time than on his first retire- 
ment. 

But Walter sought him out, and brought him back ; 
and then the captain’s great apprehension was, that 
Florence would suffer from this new shock. He felt it 
so earnestly, that he turned quite rational, and positively 
interdicted any further allusion to Walter’s adventure 
for some days to come. Captain Cuttle then became 
sufficiently composed to relieve himself of the toast in his 
hat, and to take his place at the tea-board ; but finding 
Walter’s grasp upon his shoulder, on one side, and Flor- 
ence whispering her tearful congratulations on the other, 
the captain suddenly bolted again, and was missing for a 
good ten minutes. 

But never in all his life had the captain’s face so shone 
and glistened, as when, at last, lie sat stationary at the 
tea-board, looking from Florence to Walter, and from 
Walter to Florence. Nor was this effect produced or at 
all heightened by the immense quantity of polishing he 
had administered to his face with his coat-sleeve during 
the last half-hour. It was solely the effect of his internal 
emotions. There was a glory and delight within the 
captain that spread itself over his whole visage, and 
made a perfect illumination there. 

The pride with which the captain looked upon the 
bronzed cheek and the courageous eyes of his recovered 
boy : with which he saw the generous fervor of his 
youth, and all its frank and hopeful qualities, shining 
once more, in the fresh, wholesome manner, and the ar- 
dent face : would have kindled something of this light in 
his countenance. The admiration and sympathy with 
which he turned his eyes on Florence, whose beauty, 


76 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


grace, and innocence could have won no truer or more 
zealous champion than himself, would have had an equal 
influence upon him. But the fulness of the glow he shed 
around him could only have been engendered in his con- 
templation of the two together, and in all the fancies 
springing out of that association, that came sparkling and 
beaming into his head, and danced about it. 

How they talked of poor old Uncle Sol, and dwelt on 
every little circumstance relating to his disappearance ; 
how their joy was moderated by the old man’s absence 
and by the misfortunes of Florence ; how they released 
Diogenes, whom the captain had decoyed up-stairs some 
time before, lest he should bark again : the captaiu, 
though he was in one continual flutter, and made many 
more short plunges into the shop, fully comprehended. 
But he no more dreamed that Walter looked on Flor- 
ence, as it were, from a new and far-off place ; that 
while his eyes often sought the lovely face, they seldom 
met its open glance of sisterly affection, but withdrew 
themselves when hers were raised towards him ; than he 
believed that it was Walter’s ghost who sat beside him. 
He saw them there together in their youth and beauty, 
and he knew the story of their younger days, and he had 
no hmh of room beneath his great blue waistcoat for any- 
thing save admiration of such a pair, and gratitude for 
their being reunited. 

They sat thus, until it grew late. The captain would 
have been content to sit so, for a week. But Walter 
rose, to take leave for the night. 

“ Going, Walter ! ” said Florence. “ Where ? ” 

“ He slings his hammock for the present, lady lass,” 
said Captain Cuttle, “ round at Brogley’s. Within hail. 
Heart’s Delight.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


77 


u I am the cause of jour going away, Walter,” said 
Florence. “ There is a houseless sister in your place.” 

“ Dear Miss Dombey,” replied Walter, hesitating — 
“ if it is not too bold, to call you so ! ” — 

— “ Walter ! ” she exclaimed, surprised. 

“ If anything could make me happier in being allowed 
to see and speak to you, would it not be the discovery 
that I had any means on earth of doing you a moment’s 
service ? Where would I not go, what would I not do, 
for your sake ? ” 

She smiled, and called him brother. 

“ You are so changed,” said Walter — 

“I changed ! ” she interrupted. 

— “ To me,” said Walter, softly, as if he were think- 
ing aloud, “ changed to me. I left you such a child, and 
find you — oh ! something so different ” — 

“ But your sister, Watter. You have not forgotten 
what we promised to each other, when wo parted ? ” 

w Forgotten ! ” But he said no more. 

“ And if you had — if suffering and danger had driven 
it from your thoughts — which it hao not — you would 
remember it now, Walter, when you find me poor and 
abandoned, with no home but this, and no friends but the 
two who hear me speak ! ” 

“I would ! Heaven knows I would ! ” said Walter. 

“ Oh, Walter,” exclaimed Florence, through her sobs 
and tears. “ Dear Brother ! Show me some way 
through the world— some humble path that I may take 
alone, and labor in, and sometimes think of you as one 
who will protect and care for me as for a sister ! Oh, 
help me Walter, for I need help co much ! ” 

“Miss Dombey! Florence,! I v’>juld die ip help 
you. But your friends are f/ux and rich Youi 
father” — 


78 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“No, no! Walter ! ” She shrieked, and put her 
hands up to her head, in an attitude of terror that 
transfixed him where he stood. “ Don’t say that 
word ! ” 

He never, from that hour, forgot the voice and look 
with which she stopped him at the name. He felt that 
if he were to live a hundred years, he never could for- 
get it. 

Somewhere — anywhere — but never home ! All 
past, all gone, all lost, and broken up ! The whole his- 
tory of her untold slight and suffering was in the cry 
and look ; and he felt he never could forget it, and he 
never did. 

She laid her gentle face upon the captain’s shoulder, 
and related how and why she had fled. If every sor- 
rowing tear she shed in doing so, had been a curse upon 
the head of him she never named or blamed, it would 
have been better for him, Walter thought, with awe, 
than to be renounced out of such a strength and might 
of love. 

“There, precious ! ” said the captain, when she ceased; 
and deep attention the captain had paid to her while she 
spoke ; listening, with his glazed hat all awry, and his 
mouth wide open. “Awast, awast, my eyes! Wal’r, 
dear lad, sheer off for to-night, and leave the pretty one 
to me ! ” 

Walter took her hand in both of his, and put it to his 
lips, and kissed it. He knew now that she was, indeed, 
a homeless wandering fugitive ; but, richer to him so, 
than in all the wealth and pride of her right station, she 
seemed farther off than even on the height that had 
made him giddy in his boyish dreams. 

Captain Cuttle, perplexed by no such meditations, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


70 


guarded Florence to her room, and watched at intervals 
upon the charmed ground outside her door — for such it 
truly was to him — until he felt sufficiently easy in his 
mind about her, to turn in under the counter. On 
abandoning his watch for that purpose, he could not 
help calling once, rapturously, through the key-hole, 
“ Drownded. A’n’t he, pretty ? ” — or, when he got 
down-stairs, making another trial at that verse of Lovely 
Peg. But it stuck in his throat somehow, and he could 
'make nothing of it; so he went to bed, and dreamed that 
old Sol Gills was married to Mrs. MacStinger, and kept 
prisoner by that lady in a secret chamber on a short 
allowance of victuals. 


80 


DOMBEY AND SON* 


CHAPTER L. 

MR. TOOTS’S COMPLAINT. 

. <r 

There was an empty room above stairs at the 
Wooden Midshipman’s, which, in days of yore, had been 
Walter’s bedroom. Walter, rousing up the captain be- 
times in the morning, proposed that they should carry 
thither such furniture out of the little parlor as would 
grace it best, so that Florence might take possession of 
it when she rose. As nothing could be more agreeable 
to Captain Cuttle than making himself very red and 
short of breath in such a cause, he turned to (as he 
himself said) with a will ; and, in a couple of hours, 
this garret was transformed into a species of land-cabin, 
adorned with all the choicest movables out of the 
parlor, inclusive even of the Tartar frigate, which the 
captain hung up over the chimney-piece with such ex- 
treme delight, that he could do nothing for half an 
hour afterwards but walk backward from it, lost in 
admiration. 

The captain could be induced by no persuasion of 
Walter’s to wind up the big watch, or to take back 
the canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs and tea-spoons. 
u No, no, my lad ; ” was the captain’s invariable reply 
to any solicitation of the kind, “ I’ve made that there 
little property over, jintly.” These words he repeated 
with great unction and gravity, evidently believing that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


81 


they had the virtue of an Act of Parliament, and that 
unless he committed himself by some new admission of 
ownership, no flaw could be found in such a form of 
conveyance. 

It was an advantage of the new arrangement, that 
besides the greater seclusion it afforded Florence, it 
admitted of the Midshipman being restored to his usual 
post of observation, and also of the shop shutters being 
taken down. The latter ceremony, however little im- 
portance the unconscious captain attached to it, was not 
wholly superfluous ; for, on the previous day, so much 
excitement had been occasioned in the neighborhood, by 
the shutters remaining unopened, that the Instrument- 
maker’s house had been honored with an unusual share 
of public observation, and had been intently stared at from 
the opposite side of the way, by groups of hungry gazers, 
at any time between sunrise and sunset. The idlers 
and vagabonds had been particularly interested in the 
captain’s fate ; constantly grovelling in the mud to apply 
their eyes to the cellar-grating, under the shop-window, 
and delighting their imaginations with the fancy that 
they could see a piece of his coat as he hung in a cor- 
ner; though this settlement of him was stoutly disputed 
by an opposite faction, who were of opinion that he lay 
murdered with a hammer, on the stairs. It was not 
without exciting some discontent, therefore, that the sub- 
ject of these rumors was seen early in the morning 
standing at his shop-door as hale and hearty as if noth- 
ing had happened ; and the beadle of that quarter, a 
man of an ambitious character, who had expected to 
have the distinction of being present at the breaking 
open of the door, and of giving evidence in full uniform 
before the coroner, went so far as to say to an oppo- 

VOL. iv. 6 


82 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Bite neighbor, that the chap in the glazed hat had better 
not try it on there — without more particularly mention- 
ing what — and further, that he, the beadle would keep 
his eye upon him. 

44 Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, musing, when they 
stood resting from their labors at the shop-door, looking 
down the old familiar street ; it being still early in 
the morning ; “ nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all that 
time ! ” 

“ Nothing at all, my lad,” replied the captain, shak- 
ing his head. 

“ Gone in search of me, dear, kind old man,” said 
Walter; 44 yet never write to you! But why not? He 
says, in effect, in this packet that you gave me,” taking 
the paper from his pocket, which had been opened in 
the presence of the enlightened Bunsby, “ that if you 
never hear from him before opening it, you may believe 
him dead. Heaven forbid ! But you would have heard 
of him, even if he were dead! Some one would have 
written, surely, by his desire, if he could not ; and have 
said, 4 on such a day, there died in my house/ 4 or 
under my care/ or so forth, 4 Mr. Solomon Gills of Lon- 
don, who left this last remembrance and this last request 
to you.’” 

The captain, who had never climbed to such a clear 
height of probability before, was greatly impressed by the 
wide prospect it opened, and answered, with a thought- 
ful shake of his head, 44 Well said, my lad; wery well 
said.” 

44 1 have been thinking of this, or, at least,” said Wal- 
ter, coloring, 44 1 have been thinking of one thing and 
another, all through a sleepless night, and I cannot be- 
lieve, Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol (Lord bless 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


S3 


him!) is alive, and will return. I don’t so much won- 
der at his going away, because leaving out of consider- 
ation that spice of the marvellous which was always 
in his character, and his great affection for me, before 
which every other consideration of his life became noth- 
ing, as no one ought to know so well as I who had 
the best of fathers in him,” — Walter’s voice was indis- 
tinct and husky here, and he looked away, along the 
street, — “leaving that out of consideration, I say, I have 
often read and heard of people who, having some near 
and dear relative, who was supposed to be shipwrecked 
at sea, have gone down to live on that part of the sea- 
shore where any tidings of the missing ship might be 
expected to arrive, though only an hour or two sooner 
than elsewhere, or have even gone upon her track to 
the place whither she was bound, as if their going would 
create intelligence. I think I should do such a thing 
myself, as soon as another, or sooner than many, per- 
haps. but why my uncle shouldn’t write to you, when 
he so cleany intended to do so, or how he should die 
abroad, and you not know it through some other hand, 
I cannot make out.” 

Captain Cuttle observed with a shake of his head, 
that Jack Bunsby himself hadn’t made it out, and that 
he was a man as could give a pretty taut opinion 
too. 

“ If my uncle had been a heedless young man, likely 
to be entrapped by jovial company to some drinking- 
place, where he was to be got rid of for the sake of 
what money he might have about him,” said Walter; 
“ or if he had been a reckless sailor, going ashore with 
two or three months’ pay in his pocket, I could under- 
stand his disappearing, and leaving no trace behind 


DOMB^Y AND SON. 


84 

But, being what he was — and is, I hope — I can’t be 
lieve it.” 

“ WaPr my lad,” inquired the captain, wistfully ey- 
ing him as he pondered and pondered, “ what do you 
make of it, then ? ” 

u Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter, “ I don’t know 
what to make of it. I suppose he never has written ! 
There is no doubt about that ? ” 

“ If so be as Sol Gills wrote, my lad,” replied the 
captain, argumentatively, u where’s his despatch ? ” 

“ Say that he intrusted it to some private hand,” sug- 
gested Walter, “ and that it has been forgotten or care- 
lessly thrown aside, or lost. Even that is more probable 
to me, than the other event. In short, I not only cannot 
bear to contemplate that other event, Captain Cuttle, 
but I can’t, and won’t.” 

“ Hope, you see, Wal’r,” said the captain, sagely, 
u Hope. It’s that as animates you. Hope is a buoy, 
for which you overhaul your Little Warbler, sentimen- 
tal diwision, but Lord, my lad, like any other buoy, it 
only floats ; it can’t be steered nowhere. Along with 
the figure-head of Hope,” said the captain, “ there’s a 
anchor ; but what’s the good of my having a anchor, if 
I can’t find no bottom to let it go in.” 

Captain Cuttle said this rather in his character of 
a sagacious citizen and householder, bound to impart a 
morsel from his stores of wisdom to an inexperienced 
youth, than in his own proper person. Indeed, his 
face was quite luminous as he spoke, with new hope, 
caught from Walter ; and he appropriately concluded 
by slapping him on the back ; and saying, with enthu- 
siasm, 44 Hooroar, my lad ! Indiwidually, I’m o’ your 
opinion.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


85 


Walter, with his cheerful laugh, returned the saluta- 
tion, and said : 

“ Only one word more about my uncle at present, 
Captain Cuttle. I suppose it is impossible that he can 
have written in the ordinary course — by mail-packet, 
01 ship-letter, you understand ” — 

w Ay, ay, my lad,” said the captain approvingly. 

— “ And that you have missed the letter, anyhow ? ” 
u Why, Wal’r,” said the captain, turning his eyes upon 
him with a faint approach to a severe expression, “ a’n’t 
I been on the look-out for any tidings of that man o’ 
science, old Sol Gills, your uncle, day and night, ever 
since I lost him ? A’n’t my heart been heavy and watch- 
ful always, along of him and you ? Sleeping and wak- 
ing, a’n’t I been upon my post, and wouldn’t I have 
scorned to quit it while this here Midshipman held 
together ! ” 

u Yes, Captain Cuttle,” replied Walter, grasping his 
hand, “ I know you would, and I know how faithful 
and earnest ail you say and feel is. I am sure of it. 
You don’t doubt that I am as sure of it as I am that 
my foot is again upon this door-step, or that I again have 
hold of this true hand. Do you ? ” 

“ No, no, Wal’r,” returned the captain, with his beam- 
ing face. 

“ I’ll hazard no more conjectures, said Walter, fer- 
vently shaking the hard hand of the captain, who shook 
his with no less good-will. “ All I will add is, Heaven 
forbid that I should touch my uncle’s possessions, Captain 
Cuttle ! Everything that he left here, shall remain in 
the care of the truest of stewards and kindest of men — * 
and if his name is not Cuttle he has no name Now 
best of friends, about — Miss Dombey.” 


B6 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


There was a change in Walter’s manner, as he came (o 
these two words ; and when he uttered them, all his con- 
fidence and cheerfulness appeared to have deserted him. 

“ I thought, before Miss Dombey stopped me when I 
spoke of her father last night,” said Walter, — “you 
remember how ? ” 

The captain well remembered, and shook his head. 

“I thought,” said Walter, “before that, that we had 
but one hard duty to perform, and that it was, to prevail 
upon her to communicate with her friends, and to return 
home.” 

The captain muttered a feeble “ Awast ! ” or a “ Stand 
by! ” or something or other, equally pertinent to the oc- 
casion ; but it was rendered so extremely feeble by the 
total discomfiture with which he received this announce- 
ment, that what it was, is mere matter of conjecture. 

“ But,” said Walter, “ that is over. I think so no lon- 
ger. I would sooner be put back again upon that piece 
of wreck, on which I have so often floated, since my 
preservation, in my dreams, and there left to drift, and 
drive, and die ! ” 

“ Hooroar, my lad ! ” exclaimed the captain, in a burst 
of uncontrollable satisfaction. “ Hooroar ! Hooroar ! 
Hooroar ! ” 

“ To think that she, so young, so good* and beautiful,” 
said Walter, “ so delicately brought up, and born to such 
a different fortune, should strive with the rough world ! 
But we have seen the gulf that cuts off all behind her, 
though no one but herself can know how deep it is ; and 
there is no return.” 

Captain Cuttle, without quite understanding this, 
greatly approved of it, and observed, in a tone of strong 
corroboration, that the wind was right abaft. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


87 


“ Slie ought not to be alone here ; ought she, Captain 
Cuttle?” said Walter, anxiously. 

“ Well, my lad,” replied the captain, after a little sa- 
gacious consideration. “ I don’t know. You being here 
to keep her company, you see, and you two being 

jintly ” — 

“Dear Captain Cuttle!” remonstrated Walter. “I 
being here ! Miss Dombey, in her guileless innocent 
heart, regards me as her adopted brother ; but what 
would the guile and guilt of my heart be, if I pretended 
to believe that I had any right to approach her, familiar- 
ly, in that character — if I pretended to forget that I 
am bound, in honor, not to do it ! ” 

“ Wal’r, my lad,” hinted the captain, with some re- 
vival of his discomfiture, “ a’n’t there no other character 
as ” — 

“ Oh ! ” returned Walter, “ would you have me die in 
her esteem — in such esteem as hers — and put a veil 
between myself and her angel’s face forever, by taking 
advantage of her being here for refuge, so trusting, and 
so unprotected, to endeavor to exalt myself into her 
lover! What do I say? There is no one in the world 
who would be more opposed to me if I could do so, than 
you.” 

“ Wal’r, my lad,” said the captain, drooping more and 
more, “ prowiding as there is any just cause or impedi- 
ment why two persons should not be jined together in 
the house of bondage, for which you’ll overhaul the 
place and make a note, I hope I should declare it as 
promised and wowed in the banns. So there a’n’t NO 
other character ; a’n’t there, my lad ! ” 

Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative. 

“ Well, my lad,” growled the captain slowly, “I won’t 


88 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


deny but what I find myself wery much down by .he 
head, along o’ this here, or but what I’ve gone clean 
about. But as to Lady-lass, Wal’r, mind you, wot’s re- 
spect and duty to her is respect and duty in my articles, 
hovvsumever disapinting ; and therefore I follows in your 
wake, my lad, and feel as you are, no doubt, acting up to 
yourself. And there a’n’t no other character, a’n’t 
there ! ” said the captain, musing over the ruins of his 
fallen castle with a very despondent face. 

“ Now, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, starting a fresh 
point with a gayer air, to cheer the captain up — but 
nothing could do that ; he was too much concerned — “I 
think we should exert ourselves to find some one who 
would be a proper attendant for Miss Dombey while she 
remains here, and who may be trusted. None of her 
relations may. It’s clear Miss Dombey feels that they 
are all subservient to her father. What has become of 
Susan ? ” 

“ The young woman ? ” returned the captain. “ It’s 
my belief as she was sent away again the will of Heart’s 
Delight. I made a signal for her when Lady-lass first 
come, and she rated of her wery high, and said she had 
been gone a long time.” 

“Then,” said Walter, “do you ask Miss Dombey 
where she’s gone, and we’ll try to find her. The morn- 
ing’s getting on, and Miss Dombey will soon be rising. 
You are her best friend. Wait for her up-stairs, and 
leave me to take care of all down here.” 

The captain, very crestfallen indeed, echoed the sigh 
with which Walter said this, and complied. Florence 
was delighted with her new room, anxious to see Walter, 
and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old friend 
Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan was 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


89 


gone, except that it was in Essex, and no one could say, 
she remembered, unless it were Mr. Toots. 

With this information the melancholy captain returned 
to Walter, and gave him to understand that Mr. Toots 
was the young gentleman whom he had encountered on 
the door-step, and that he was a friend of his, and that 
he was a young gentleman of property, and that he 
hopelessly adored Miss Dombey. The captain also re- 
lated how the intelligence of Walter’s supposed fate had 
first made him acquainted with Mr. Toots, and how 
there was solemn treaty and compact between them, that 
Mr. Toots should be mute upon the subject of his 
love. 

The question then was, whether Florence could trust 
Mr. Toots ; and Florence saying, with a smile, “ Oh, yes, 
with her whole heart ! ” it became important to find out 
where Mr. Toots lived. This Florence didn’t know, and 
the captain had forgotten ; and the captain was telling 
Walter, in the little parlor, that Mr. Toots was sure to 
be there soon, when in came Mr. Toots himself. 

“ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, rushing into the par- 
lor without any ceremony, “ I’m in a state of mind bor- 
dering on distraction ! ” 

Mr. Toots had discharged those words, as from a 
mortar, before he observed Walter, whom he recog- 
nized with wha f may be described as a chuckle of mis- 
ery. 

“ You’ll excuse me, sir,” said Mr. Toots, holding his 
forehead, “ but I’m at present in that state that my brain 
is going, if not gone, and anything approaching to polite- 
ness in an individual so situated wculd be a hollow mock- 
ery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favor of a pri- 
vate interview.” 


90 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Why, brother,” returned the captain, taking him by 
the hand, “ you are the man as we was on the look-out 
for.” 

“ Oh, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “ what a look-out 
that must be of which I am the object! I haven’t dared 
to shave, I’m in that rash state. I haven’t had my 
clothes brushed. My hair is matted together. I told 
the Chicken that if he offered to clean my boots, I’d 
stretch him a Corpse before me ! ” 

All these indications of a disordered mind were veri- 
fied in Mr. Toots’s appearance, which was wild and sav- 
age. 

“ See here, brother,” said the captain. “ This here’s 
old Sol Gills’s nevy Wal’r. Him as was supposed to 
have perished at sea.” 

Mr. Toots took his hand from his forehead, and stared 
at Walter. 

“ Good gracious me ! ” stammered Mr. Toots. “ What 
a complication of misery ! How-de-do ? I — I — I’m 
afraid you must have got very wet. Captain Gills, will 
you allow me a word in the shop ? ” 

He took the captain by the coat, and going out with 
him, whispered : 

“ That then, Captain Gills, is the party you spoke of, 
when you said that he and Miss Dombey were made for 
one another ? ” 

“ Why, ay, my lad,” replied the disconsolate captain ; 
M I was of that mind once.” 

• “ And at this time ! ” exclaimed Mr. Toots, with his 
hand to his forehead again. “ Of all others ! — a hated 
rival ! At least, he a’n’t a hated rival,” said Mr. Toots, 
stopping short, on second thoughts, and taking away his 
nand ; “ what should I hate him for ? No. If my af- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


91 


fection has been truly disinterested, Captain Gills, let 
me prove it now ? ” * 

Mr. Toots shot back abruptly into the parlor, and said, 
wringing Walter by the hand : 

“ How-de-do? I hope you didn’t take any cold. I — 
I shall be very glad if you’ll give me the pleasure of 
your acquaintance. I wish you many happy returns of 
the day. Upon my word and honor,” said Mr. Toots, 
warming as he became better acquainted with Walter's 
face and figure, “ I’m very glad to see you ! ” 

“ Thank you heartily,” said Walter. “ I couldn’t de- 
sire a more genuine and genial welcome.” 

“ Couldn’t you, though ? ” said Mr. Toots, still shaking 
his hand. “ It’s very kind of you. I’m much obliged 
to you. How-de-do ? I hope you left everybody quite 
well over the — that is, upon the — I mean wherever 
you came from last, you know.” 

All these good wishes, and better intentions, Walter 
responded to manfully. 

“ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “ I should wish to 
be strictly honorable ; but I trust I may be allowed now, 
to allude to a certain subject that ” — 

“ Ay, ay, my lad,” returned the captain. “ Freely, 
freely.” 

“ Then, Captain Gills,’* said Mr. Toots, u and Lieu- 
tenant Walters, are you aware that the most dreadful 
circumstances have been happening at Mr. Dombey’s 
house, and that Miss Dombey herself has left her 
father, who, in my opinion,” said Mr. Toots, with great 
excitement, “ is a Brute, that it would be a flattery to 
call a — a marble monument, or a bird of prey — and 
that she is not to be found, and has gone no one knows 
where ? ” 


92 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ May I ask how you heard this ? ” inquired Walter. 

“Lieutenant Walters,” said Mr. Toots, who had arrived 
at that appellation by a process peculiar to himself ; prob- 
ably by jumbling up his Christian name with the seafar- 
ing profession, and supposing some relationship between 
him and the captain, which would extend, as a matter 
of course, to their titles ; “ Lieutenant Walters, I can 
have no objection to make a straightforward reply. The 
fact is, that feeling extremely interested in everything 
that relates to Miss Dombey — not for any selfish rea- 
son, Lieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the 
most agreeable thing I could do for all parties would be 
to put an end to my existence, which can only be re- 
garded as an inconvenience — I have been in the habit 
of bestowing a trifle now and then upon a footman ; a 
most respectable young man, of the name of Towlinson, 
who has lived in the family some time ; and Towlinson 
informed me, yesterday evening, that this was the state 
of things. Since which, Captain Gills — and Lieuten- 
ant Walters — I have been perfectly frantic, and have 
been lying down on the sofa all night, the Rum you 
behold.” 

“Mr. Toots,” said Walter, “I am happy to be able 
to relieve your mind. Pray calm yourself. Miss Dom- 
bey is safe and well.” 

“ Sir ! ” cried Mr. Toots, starting from his chair and 
shaking hands with him anew, “ the relief is so exces- 
sive, and unspeakable, that if you were to tell me now 
that Miss Dombey was married even, I could smile. 
Yes, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots appealing to him, 
‘ upon my soul and body, I really think, whatever I 
might do to myself immediately afterwards, that I could 
smile, I am so relieved.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


93 


“ It will be a greater relief and delight still, to such 
a generous mind as yours,” said Walter, not at all slow 
in returning his greeting, “ to find that you can render 
service to Miss Dombey. Captain Cuttle, will you have 
the kindness to take Mr. Toots up-stairs?” 

The captain beckoned to Mr. Toots, who followed 
him with a bewildered countenance, and, ascending to 
the top of the house, was introduced, without a w#rd 
of preparation from his conductor, into Florence’s new 
retreat. 

Poor Mr. Toots’s amazement and pleasure at sight of 
her were such, that they could find a vent in nothing 
but extravagance. He ran up to her, seized her hand, 
kissed it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one knee, 
shed tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his 
danger of being pinned by Diogenes, who, inspired by 
the belief that there was something hostile to his mis- 
tress in these demonstrations, worked round and round 
him, as if only undecided at what particular point to go 
in for the assault, but quite resolved to do him a fearful 
mischief. 

“ Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog ! Dear Mr. Toots, I 
am so rejoiced to see you ! ” 

“ Thankee,” said Mr. Toots, “ I am pretty well, I’m 
much obliged to you, Miss Dombey. I hope all the 
family are the same.” 

Mr. Toots said this without the least notion of what 
he was talking about, and sat down on a chair, staring 
at Florence with the liveliest contention of delight and 
despair going on in his face that any face could ex- 
hibit. 

“ Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have men- 
tioned, Miss Dombey,” gasped Mr. Toots, “ that I can 


94 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


do you some service. If I could by any means wash 
out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I 
conducted myself — much more like a Parricide than a 
person of independent property ,” said Mr. Toots, with 
severe self-accusation, “ I should sink into the silent 
omb with a gleam of joy.” 

“ Pray, Mr. Toots,” said Florence, “ do not wish me 
to forget anything in our acquaintance. I never can, 
believe me. You have been far too kind and good to 
me, always.” 

“ Miss Dombey,” returned Mr. Toots, “ your consid- 
eration for my feelings is a part of your angelic charac- 
ter. Thank you a thousand times. It’s of no conse- 
quence at all.” 

“ What we thought of asking you,” said Florence, “ is, 
whether you remember where Susan, whom you were so 
kind as to accompany to the coach-office when she left 
me, is to be found.” 

“ Why I do not certainly, Miss Dombey,” said Mr. 
Toots, after a little consideration, “ remember the exact 
name of the place that was on the coach ; and I do 
recollect that she said she was not going to stop there, 
but was going farther on. But Miss Dombey, if your 
object is to find her, and to have her here, myself and 
the Chicken will produce her with every despatch that 
devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the Chick- 
en’s can insure.” 

Mr. Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived 
by the prospect of being useful, and the disinterested 
sincerity of his devotion was so unquestionable, that it 
would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence, with 
an instinctive delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle, 
though she did not forbear to overpower him with thanks; 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


95 


and Mr. Tool 3 proudly took the commission upon himself 
for immediate execution. 

u Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots, touching her prof- 
fered hand, with a pang of hopeless love visibly shoot- 
ing through him, and flashing out in his face, “ Good- 
by ! Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your 
misfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you 
may trust me, next to Captain Gills himself. I am 
quite aware, Miss Dombey, of my own deficiencies — 
they’re not of the least consequence, thank you — but 
I am entirely to be relied upon, I do assure you, Miss 
Dombey.” 

With that Mr. Toots came out of the room again, 
accompanied by the captain, who, standing at a little 
distance, holding his hat under his arm and arranging 
his scattered locks with his hook, had been a not unin- 
terested witness of what passed. And when the door 
closed behind them, the light of Mr. Toots’s life was 
darkly clouded again. 

“ Captain Gills,” said that gentleman, stopping near 
the bottom of the stairs, and turning round, “ to tell you 
the truth, I am not in a frame of mind at the present 
moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters with 
that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should 
wish to harbor in my breast. We cannot always com- 
mand our feelings, Captain Gills, and I should take it 
as a particular favor if you’d let mo out at the private 
door.” 

“ Brother,” returned the captain, “ you shall shape 
your own course. Wotever course you take, is plain 
and seamanlike, I’m wery sure.” 

“ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “you’re extremely 
kind. Your good opinion is a consolation to me. There 


96 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Is one thing,” said Mr. Toots, standing in the passage, 
behind the half-opened door, “ that I hope you’ll bear 
in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieuten- 
ant Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite 
come into my property now, you know, and — and I 
don’t know what to do with it. If I could be at all 
useful in a pecuniary point of view, I should glide into 
the silent tomb with ease and smoothness.” 

Mr. Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and 
shut the door upon himself, to cut the captain off from 
any reply. 

Florence thought of this good creature, long after he 
had left her, with mingled emotions of pain and pleas- 
ure. He was so honest and warm-hearted, that to see 
him again and be assured of his truth to her in her 
distress, was a joy and comfort beyond all price ; but 
for that very reason, it was so affecting to think that 
she caused him a moment’s unhappiness, or ruffled by 
a *breath, the harmless current of his life, that her eyes 
filled with tears, and her bosom overflowed with pity. 
Captain Cuttle, in his different way, thought much of 
Mr. Toots too ; and so did Walter ; and when the even- 
ing came, and they were all sitting together in Florence’s 
new room, Walter praised him in a most impassioned 
manner, and told Florence what he had said on leaving 
the house, with every graceful setting-off in the way of 
comment and appreciation that his own honesty and sym- 
pathy could surround it with. 

Mr. Toots did not return upon the next day, or the 
next, or for several days ; and in the mean while Flor- 
ence, without any new alarm, lived like a quiet bird in 
a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker’s house. 
But Florence drooped and hung her head more and more 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


97 


plainly, as the days went on; and the expression that had 
been seen in the face of the dead child, was often turned 
to the sky from her high window, as if it sought his 
angel out, on the bright shore of which he had spoken : 
lying on his little bed. 

Florence had been weak and delicate of late, and the 
agitation she had undergone was not without its influ- 
ences on her health. But it was no bodily illness that 
affected her now. She was distressed in mind ; and 
the cause of her distress was Walter. 

Interested in her, anxious for her, proud and glad to 
serve her, and showing all this with the enthusiasm and 
ardor of his character, Florence saw that he avoided her. 
All the long day through, he seldom approached her 
room. If she asked for him, he came, again for the 
moment as earnest and as bright as she remembered him 
when she was a lost child in the staring streets; but lie 
soon became constrained — her quick affection was too 
watchful not to know it - — and uneasy, and soon left her. 
Unsought, he never came, all day, between the morning 
and the night. When the evening closed in, he was 
always there, and that was her happiest time, for then 
she half believed that the old Walter of her childhood 
was not changed. But, even then, some trivial word, 
look, or circumstance would show her that there was an 
indefinable division between them which could not be 
passed. 

And she could not but see that these revealings of a 
great alteration in Walter manifested themselves in de- 
spite of his utmost efforts to hide them. In his considera- 
tion for her, she thought, and in the earnestness of his 
desire to spare her any wound from his kind hand, he 
resorted to innumerable little artifices and disguises. Sc 
7 


VOL. IV. 


98 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


much the more did Florence feel the greatness of the 
alteration in him ; so much the oftener did she weep at 
this estrangement of her brother. 

The good captain — her untiring, tender, ever zealous 
friend — saw it too, Florence thought, and it pained him. 
He was less cheerful and hopeful than he had been at 
first, and would steal looks at her and Walter, by turns, 
when they were all three together of an evening, with 
quite a sad face. 

Florence resolved, at last, to speak to Walter. She 
believed she knew now what the cause of his estrange- 
ment was, and she thought it would be a relief to her full 
heart, and would set him more at ease, if she told him 
she had found it out, and quite submitted to it, and did 
not reproach him. 

It was on a certain Sunday afternoon, that Florence 
took this resolution. The faithful captain, in an amazing 
shirt-collar, was sitting by her, reading with his spectacles 
on, and she asked him where Walter was. 

“ I think he’s down below, my lady lass,” returned the 
captain. 

“ I should like to speak to him,” said Florence, rising 
hurriedly, as if to go down-stairs. 

“I’ll rouse him up here, Beauty,” said the captain, 
* in a trice.” 

Thereupon the captain, with much alacrity, shouldered 
his book — for he made it a point of duty to read none 
but very large books on a Sunday, as having a more 
staid appearance : and had bargained, years ago, for a 
prodigious volume at a book-stall, five lines of which 
utterly confounded him at any time, insomuch that he 
had not yet ascertained of what subject it treated — and 
withdrew. Walter soon appeared. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


99 


“ Captain Cuttle tells me, Miss Dombey,” — he eagerly 
began on coming in — but stopped when he saw her 
face. 

“You are not so well to-day. You look distressed. 
You have been weeping.” 

He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in 
his voice, that the tears gushed into her eyes at the sound 
of his words. 

Walter,” said Florence, gently, “ I am not quite well, 
and I’ve been weeping. I want to speak to you.” 

He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful 
and innocent face ; and his own turned pale, and his lips 
trembled. 

“ You said, upon the night when I knew that you were 
saved — and oh ! dear Walter, what I felt that night, and 
what I hoped ! ” — 

He put his trembling hand upon the table between 
them, and sat looking at her. 

— “ that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you 
say so, but I understand, now, that I am. Don’t be angry 
with me, Walter. I was too much overjoyed to think of 
it, then.” 

She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenu- 
ous, confiding, loving child, he saw and heard. Not the 
dear woman, at whose feet he would have laid the riches 
of the earth. 

“ You remember the last time I saw you, Walter, be- 
fore you went away ? ” 

He put his hand into his breast, and took out a little 
purse. 

“ I have always worn it round my neck ! If I had 
gone down in the deep, it would have been with me 
at the bottom of the sea.” 


100 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old 

Bake ? ” 

“ Until I die ! ” 

She laid her hand on his, as fearlessly and simply, as 
if not a day had intervened since she gave him the little- 
token of remembrance. 

“ I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think 
so, Walter. Do you recollect that a thought of this 
change seemed to come into our minds at the same time 
that evening, when we were talking together? ” 

“ No ! ” he answered, in a wondering tone. 

“ Yes, Walter. I had been the means of injuring your 
hopes and prospects even then. I feared to think so, 
then, but I know it now. If you were able, then, in your 
generosity, to hide from me that you knew it too, you 
cannot do so now, although you try as generously as 
before. You do. I thank you for it, Walter, deeply, 
truly ; but you cannot succeed. You have suffered too 
much in your own hardships, and in those of your 
dearest relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of 
all the peril and affliction that has befallen you. You 
cannot quite forget me in that character, and we can be 
brother and sister no longer. But, dear Walter, do not 
think that I complain of you in this. I might have 
known it — ought to have known it — but forgot it in 
my joy. All I hope is that you may think of me less 
irksomely when this feeling is no more a secret one ; and 
all I ask is, Walter, in the name of the poor child who 
was your sister once, that you will not struggle with 
yourself, and pain yourself, for my sake, now that J 
know all.” 

Walter had looked upon her while she said this, with 
ft face so full of wonder and amazement, that it had 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


101 


room for nothing else. Now he caught up the hand that 
touched his, so entreatingly, and held it between his own. 

“ Oh, Miss Dombey,” he said, “ is it possible that while 
I have been suffering so much, in striving with my sense 
of what is due to you, and must be rendered to you, I 
have made you suffer what your words disclose to me. 
Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but 
as the single bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boy- 
hood and my youth. Never have I from the first, and 
never shall I to the last, regard your part in my life, but 
as something sacred, never to be lightly thought of, never 
to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten. 
Again to see you look, and hear you speak, as you did 
on that night when we parted, is happiness to me that 
there are no words to utter ; and to be loved and trusted 
as your brother, is the next great gift I could receive and 
prize ! ” 

“ Walter,” said Florence, looking at him earnestly, but 
with a changing face, “ what is that which is due to me, 
and must be rendered to me, at the sacrifice of all this?” 

“ Respect,” said Walter, in a low tone. “ Reverence.” 

The color dawned in her face, and she timidly and 
thoughtfully withdrew her hand ; still looking at him 
with unabated earnestness. 

“ I have not a brother’s right,” said Walter. “ I have 
not a brother’s claim. I left a child. I find a woman.” 

The color overspread her face. She made a gesture 
as if of entreaty that he would say no more, and her 
face dropped upon her hands. 

They were both silent for a time ; she weeping. 

“ I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good,” said 
Walter, “ even to tear myself from it, though I rend my 
own. How dare I say it is my sister’s ! ” 


102 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


She was weeping still. 

“ If you had been happy ; surrounded as you should 
be by loving and admiring friends, and by all that make3 
the station you were born to enviable,” said Walter ; 
“ and if you had called me brother, then, in your affec- 
tionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered 
to the name from my distant place, with no inward as- 
surance that I wronged your spotless truth by doing so. 
But here — and now ! ” — 

“ Oh thank you, thank you, Walter! Forgive my 
having wronged you so much. I had no one to advise 
me. I am quite alone.” 

“ Florence !” said Walter, passionately, “ I am hurried 
on to say, what I thought, but a few moments ago, noth- 
ing could have forced from my lips. If I had been pros- 
perous ; if I had any means or hope of being one day 
able to restore you to a station near your own ; I would 
have told you that there was one name you might 
bestow upon me — a right above all others, to protect 
and cherish you — that I was worthy of in nothing but 
the love and honor that I bore you, and in my whole 
heart being yours. I would have told you that it was 
the only claim that you could give me to defend and 
guard you, which I dare accept and dare assert ; but 
that if I had that right, I would regard it as a trust so 
precious and so priceless, that the undivided truth and 
fervor of my life would poorly acknowledge its worth.” 

The head was still bent down, the tears still falling, 
und the bosom swelling with its sobs. 

“Dear Florence! dearest Florence! whom I called 
go in my thoughts before I could consider how pre- 
sumptuous and wild it was. One last time let me call 
you by your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


103 


in token of your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have 
said.” 

She raised her ‘head, and spoke to him with such a 
solemn sweetness in her eyes ; with such a calm, bright, 
placid smile shining on him through her tears ; with such 
a low, soft tremble in her frame and voice ; that the in- 
nermost chords of his heart were touched, and his sight 
was dim as he listened. 

“ No, Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget 
it, for the world. Are you — are you very poor ? ” 

“ I am but a wanderer,” said Walter, “ making voy- 
ages to live across the sea. That is my calling now.” 

“Are you soon going away again, Walter?” 

“ Very soon.” 

She sat looking at him for a moment ; then timidly 
put her trembling hand in his. 

“ If you will take me for your wife, Walter, I will 
love you dearly. If you will let me go with you, Wal- 
ter, I will go to the world’s end without fear. I can 
give up nothing for you — I have nothing to resign, and 
no one to forsake ; but all my love and life shall be 
devoted to you, and with my last breath 1 will breathe 
your name to God if I have sense and memory left.” 

He caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against 
his own, and now, no more repulsed, no more forlorn, 
6he wept indeed, upon the breast of her dear lover. 

Blessed Sunday bells, ringing so tranquilly in their 
entranced and happy ears ! Blessed Sunday peace and 
quiet, harmonizing with the calmness in their souls, and 
making holy air around them ! Blessed twilight stealing 
on, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she 
falls asleep, like a hushed child, upon the bosom she has 
clung to ! 


104 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies so lightly 
there ! Ay, look down on the closed eyes, Walter, with a 
proudly tender gaze ; for in all the wide wide world they 
seek but thee now — only thee ! 

The captain remained in the little parlor until it was 
quite dark. He took the chair on which Walter had 
been sitting, and looked up at the skylight, until the day, 
by little and little, faded away, and the stars peeped 
down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, smoked it 
out, and wondered what on earth was going on up-stairs, 
and why they didn’t call him to tea. 

Florence came to his side while he was in the height 
of his wonderment. 

“Ay ! lady lass!” cried the captain. “Why, you and 
Wal’r have had a long spell o’ talk, my beauty.” 

Florence put her little hand round one of the great 
buttons of his coat, and said, looking down into his face : 

“ Dear captain, I want to tell you something, if you 
please.” 

The captain raised his head pretty smartly, to hear 
what it was. Catching by this means a more distinct 
view of Florence, he pushed back his chair, and himself 
with it as far as they could go. 

“ What ! Heart’s Delight ! ” cried the captain, sud- 
denly elated. “ Is it that ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” said Florence, eagerly. 

“Wal’r! Husband! That?” roared the captain, 
tossing up his glazed hat into the skylight. 

“ Yes ! ” cried Florence, laughing and crying to- 
gether. 

The captain immediately hugged her ; and then, pick- 
ing up the glazed hat and putting it on, drew her arm 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


105 


through his, and conducted her up-stairs again ; where 
he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be 
made. 

“ What, Wal’r my lad ! ” said the captain, looking in 
at the door, with his face like an amiable warming-pan. 
“ So there a’n’t no other character, a’n’t there ? ” 

He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleas- 
antry, which he repeated at least forty times during tea; 
polishing his radiant face with the sleeve of his coat, and 
dabbing his head all over with his pocket-handkerchief, 
in the intervals. But he was not without a graver source 
of enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, for he 
was repeatedly heard to say in an undertone, as he 
looked with ineffable delight at Walter and Florence: 

“ Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better 
course in your life, than when you made that there little 
property over, jintly ! ” 


106 


DOMBEY AND SON 


CHAPTER LL 

MR. DOMBEY AND THE WORLD. 

What is the proud man doing, while the days go by? 
Does he ever think of his daughter, or wonder where 
she is gone ? Does he suppose she has come home, and 
is leading her old life in the weary house ? No one can 
answer for him. He has never uttered her name, since. 
His household dread him too much to approach a subject 
on which he is resolutely dumb ; and the only person 
who dare question him, he silences immediately. 

“ My dear Paul ! ” murmurs his sister, sidling into the 
room, on the day of Florence’s departure, “your wife! 
that upstart woman ! Is it possible that what I hear 
confusedly, is true, and that this is her return for your 
unparalleled devotion to her ; extending, I am sure, even 
to the sacrifice of your own relations, to her caprices and 
haughtiness ? My poor brother ! ” 

With this speech, feelingly reminiscent of her not hav- 
ing been asked to dinner on the day of the first party, 
Mrs. Chick makes great use of her pocket-handkerchief, 
and falls on Mr. Dombey’s neck. But Mr. Dombey 
frigidly lifts her off, and hands her to a chair. 

“1 thank you, Louisa,” he says, “for this mark of your 
affection ; but desire that our conversation may refer to 
any other subject. When I bewail my fate, Louisa, or 
express myself as being in want of consolation, you can 
offer it, if you will have the goodness.” 


DOftIBEY AND SON 


107 


“ My dear Paul,” rejoins his sister, with her handker 
chief to her face, and shaking her head, “ I know your 
great spirit, and will say no more upon a theme so painful 
and revolting ; ” on the heads of which two adjectives, Mrs. 
Chick visits scathing indignation ; “ but pray let me ask 
you — though I dread to hear something that will shock 
and distress me — that unfortunate child Florence” — 

“ Louisa 1 ” says her brother, sternly, “ silence. Not 
another word of this ! ” 

Mrs. Chick can only shake her head, and use her 
handkerchief, and moan over degenerate Dombeys, who 
are no Dombeys. But whether Florence has been in- 
culpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or 
has done too much, or too little, or anything, or nothing, 
she has not the least idea. 

He goes on, without deviation, keeping his thoughts 
and feelings close within his own breast, and imparting 
them to no one. He makes no search for his daughter. 
He may think that she is with his sister, or that she is 
under his own roof. He may think of her constantly, 
or he may never think about her. It is all one for any 
sign he makes. 

But this is sure ; he does not think that he has lost 
her. He has no suspicion of the truth. He has lived 
too long shut up in his towering supremacy, seeing her, 
a patient, gentle creature, in the path below it, to have 
any fear of that. Shaken as he is by his disgrace, he is 
not yet humbled to the level earth. The root is broad 
and deep, and in the course of years its fibres have 
spread out and gathered nourishment from everything 
around it. The tree is struck, but not down. 

Though he hide the world within him from the world 
without — which he believes has but one purpose for the 


108 


DOMBEY A.ND SON. 


time, and that to watch him eagerly wherever he goes — 
he cannot hide those rebel traces of it, which escape in 
hollow eyes and cheeks, a haggard forehead, and a 
moody, brooding air. Impenetrable as before, he is still 
an altered man ; and, proud as ever, he is humbled, or 
those marks would not be there. 

The world. What the world thinks of him, how it 
looks at him, what it sees in him, and what it says — 
this is the haunting demon of his mind. It is every- 
where where he is ; and, worse than that, it is every- 
where where he is not. It comes out with him among 
his servants, and yet he leaves it whispering behind ; he 
sees it pointing after him in the street ; it is waiting for 
him in his counting-house : it leers over the shoulders of 
rich men among the merchants ; it goes beckoning and 
babbling among the crowd ; it always anticipates him, in 
every place ; and is always busiest, he knows, when he 
has gone away. When he is shut up in his room at 
night, it is in his house, outside it, audible in footsteps 
on the pavement, visible in print upon the table, steam- 
ing to and fro on railroads and in ships : restless and 
busy everywhere, with nothing else but him. 

It is not a phantom of his imagination. It is as active 
in other people’s minds as in his. Witness Cousin Fee- 
nix, who conies from Baden-Baden, purposely to talk to 
him. Witness Major Bagstock, who accompanies Cousin 
Feenix on that friendly mission. 

Mr. Dombey receives them with his usual dignity, and 
stands erect, in his old attitude, before the fire. He 
feels that the world is looking at him out of their eyes. 
That it is in the stare of the pictures. That Mr. Pitt, 
upon the book -case, represents it. That there are eyes 
in its own map, hanging on the wall. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


109 


44 An unusually cold spring,” says Mr. Dombey — to 
deceive the world. 

“ Damme, sir,” says the major, in the warmth of 
friendship, “Joseph Bagstock is a bad hand at a counter- 
feit. If you want to hold your friends off, Dombey, and 
to give them the cold shoulder, J. B. is not the man for 
your purpose. Joe is rough and tough, sir ; blunt, sir, 
blunt, is Joe. His Royal Highness the late Duke of 
York did me the honor to say, deservedly or undeserv- 
edly — never mind that — 4 If there is a man in the 
service on whom I can depend for coming to the point, 
that man is Joe — Joe Bagstock.’ ” 

Mr. Dombey intimates his acquiescence. 

44 Now, Dombey,” says the major, 44 1 am a man of the 
world. Our friend Feenix — if I may presume to ” — 

44 Honored, I am sure,” says Cousin Feenix. 

— 44 is,” proceeds the major, with a wag of his head, 
44 also a man of the world. Dombey, you are a man of 
the world. Now, when three men of the world meet 
together, and are friends — as I believe ” — again ap- 
pealing to Cousin Feenix. 

44 1 am sure,” says Cousin Feenix, 44 most friendly.” 

— 44 and are friends,” resumes the major, 44 Old Joe’s 
opinion is (J. may be wrong), that the opinion of the 
world on any particular subject, is very easily got at.” 

44 Undoubtedly,” says Cousin Feenix. 44 In point of 
fact, it’s quite a self-evident sort of thing. I am ex- 
tremely anxious, major, that my friend Dombey should 
hear me express my very great astonishment and regret, 
that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was pos- 
sessed of every qualification to make a man happy, 
should have so far forgotten what was due to — in point 
of fact, to the world — as to commit herself in such a 


no 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


very extraordinary manner. I have been in a devilish 
state of depression ever since ; and said indeed to Long 
Saxby last night — man of six foot ten, with whom my 
friend Dombey is probably acquainted — that it had up* 
set me in a confounded way, and made me bilious. It 
induces a man to reflect, this kind of fatal catastrophe/ 5 
says Cousin Feenix, “ that events do occur in quite a 
Providential manner ; for if my aunt had been living at 
the time, I think the effect upon a devilish lively woman 
like herself, would have been prostration, and that she 
would have fallen, in point of fact, a victim.” 

“Now, Dombey!” — says the major, resuming his 
discourse with great energy. 

“ I beg your pardon,” interposes Cousin Feenix. “ Al- 
low me another word. My friend Dombey will permit 
me to say, that if any circumstance could have added to 
the most infernal state of pain in which I find myself on 
this occasion, it would be the natural amazement of the 
world at my lovely and accomplished relative (as I must 
still beg leave to call her) being supposed to have so 
committed herself with a person — man with white teeth, 
in point of fact — of very inferior station to her hus- 
band. But while I must, rather peremptorily, request 
my friend Dombey not to criminate my lovely and ac- 
complished relative until her criminality is perfectly 
established, I beg ta assure my friend Dombey that the 
family I represent, and which is now almost extinct 
(devilish sad reflection for a man), will interpose no ob- 
stacle in his way, and will be happy to assent to any 
honorable course of proceeding, with a view to the 
future, that he may point out. I trust my friend Dom- 
bey will give me credit for the intentions by which I am 
animated in this very melancholy affair, and — a — in 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Ill 


point of fact, I am not aware that I need trouble my 
friend Dombey with any further observations.” 

Mr. Dombey bows, without raising his eyes, and is 
silent. 

“ Now, Dombey,” says the major, “ our friend Feenix 
having, with an amount of eloquence that old Joe B. has 
never heard surpassed — no, by the Lord, sir ! never ! ” 
-—says the major, very blue, indeed, and grasping his 
cane in the middle — “ stated the case as regards the 
lady, I shall presume upon our friendship, Dombey, tc 
offer a word on another aspect of it. Sir,” says the 
major, with the horse’s cough, “ the world in these things 
has opinions, which must be satisfied.” 

“ I know it,” rejoins Mr. Dombey. 

“ Of course you know it, Dombey,” says the major. 
“ Damme, sir, I know you know it. A man of your 
calibre is not likely to be ignorant of it.” 

“ I hope not,” replies Mr. Dombey. 

u Dombey ! ” says the major, u you will guess the rest. 
I speak out — prematurely, perhaps — because the Bag- 
stock breed have always spoken out. Little, sir, have 
they ever got by doing it ; but it’s in the Bagstock 
blood. A shot is to be taken at this man. You have J. 
B. at your elbow. He claims the name of friend. God 
bless you ! ” 

“ Major,” returns Mr. Dombey, “ I am obliged. I 
shall put myself in your hands when the time comes. 
The time not being come, I have forborne to speak to 
you.” 

“ Where is the fellow, Dombey?” inquires the major, 
after gasping and looking at him, for a minute. 

“ I don’t know.” 

Any intelligence of him ? ” asks the major. 


112 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Yes.” 

“ Dombey, I am rejoiced to hear it,” says the major. 
“ I congratulate you.” 

“ You will excuse — even you, major,” replies Mr. 
Dombey, “ my entering into any further detail at present. 
The intelligence is of a singular kind, and singularly ob- 
tained. It may turn out to be valueless; it may turn 
out to be true ; I cannot say at present. My explana- 
tion must stop here.” 

Although this is but a dry reply to the majors purple 
enthusiasm, the major receives it graciously, and is de- 
lighted to think that the world has such a fair prospect 
of soon receiving its due. Cousin Feenix is then pre- 
sented with his meed of acknowledgment by the hus- 
band of his lovely and accomplished relative, and Cousin 
Feenix and Major Bagstock retire, leaving that husband 
to the world again, and to ponder at leisure on their 
representation of its state of mind concerning his affairs, 
and on its just and reasonable expectations. 

But who sits in the house-keeper’s room, shedding 
tears, and talking to Mrs. Pipchin in a low tone, with 
uplifted hands ?• It is a lady with her face concealed in 
a very close black bonnet, which appears not to belong 
to her. It is Miss Tox, who has borrowed this disguise 
from her servant, and comes from Princess’s-place, thus 
secretly, to revive her old acquaintance with Mrs. Pip- 
chin, in order to get certain information of the state of 
Mr. Dombey. 

“ How does he bear it, my dear creature : ” asks Miss 

Tox. 

“ Well,” says Mrs. Pipchin, in her snappish way, 
M he's pretty much as usual.” 

“ Externally,” suggests Miss Tox. “ But what he feels 
within ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


118 


Mrs. Pipchin’s hard gray eye looks doubtful as she 
answers, in three distinct jerks, “ Ah ! Perhaps. I sup- 
pose so/’ 

“ To tell you my mind, Lucretia,” says Mrs. Pipchin ; 
she still calls Miss Tox Lucretia, on account of having 
made her first experiments in the child-quelling-line of 
business on that lady, when an unfortunate and weazen 
little girl of tender years ; “ to tell you my mind, Lu- 
cretia, I think it’s a good riddance. I don’t want any 
of your brazen faces here, myself ! ” 

“ Brazen indeed ! Well may you say brazen, Mrs. 
Pipchin ! ? ’ returns Miss Tox. “Tfr ; leave him! Such 
a noble figure of a man ! ” And here Miss Tox is 
overcome. 

“I don’t know about noble, I’m sure,” observes Mrs. 
Pipchin, irascibly rubbing her nose. “ But I know this 
— that when people meet with trials, they must bear 
’em. Hoity, toity ! I have had enough to bear myself, 
in my time ! What a fuss there is ! She’s gone, and well 
got rid of. Nobody wants her back, I should think ! ” 

This hint of the Peruvian Mines, causes Miss Tox 
to rise to go away ; when Mrs. Pipchin rings the bell 
for Towlinson to show her out. Mr. Towlinson, not 
having seen Miss Tox for ages, grins, and hopes she’s 
well ; observing that he didn’t know her at first, in that 
bonnet. 

u Pretty well, Towlinson, I thank you,” says Miss Tox. 
“1 beg you’ll have the goodness, when you happen to 
gee me here, not to mention it. My visits are merely to 
Mrs. Pipchin.” 

“ Very good, miss,” says Towlinson. 

“ Shocking circumstances occur, Towlinson,” says Miss 
Tox. 

VOL. IV. 


8 


114 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Very much so indeed, miss,” rejoins Towlinson 

“ I hope, Towlinson,” says Miss Tox, who, in her in- 
struction of the Toodle family has acquired an admoni- 
torial tone, and a habit of improving passing occasions, 
u that what has happened here, will be a warning to you, 
Towlinson.” 

“ Thank you, miss, I’m sure,” says Towlinson. 

He appears to be falling into a consideration of the 
manner in which this warning ought to operate in his 
particular case, when the vinegary Mrs. Pipchin, sud- 
denly stirring him up with a “ What are you doing ! 
Why don’t you show" the lady to the door ! ” he ushers 
Miss Tox forth. As she passes Mr. Dombey’s room, she 
shrinks into the inmost depths of the black bonnet, and 
walks on tiptoe; and there is not another atom in the 
world which haunts him so, that feels such sorrow and 
solicitude about him, as Miss Tox takes out under the 
black bonnet into the street, and tries to carry home 
shadowed from the newly -lighted lamps. 

But Miss Tox is not a part of Mr. Dombey’s world. 
She comes back every evening at dusk ; adding clogs 
and an umbrella to the bonnet on wet nights ; and bears 
the grins of Towlinson, and the huffs and rebuffs of Mrs. 
Pipchin, and all to ask how he does, and how he bears 
his misfortune : but she has nothing to do with Mr. Dom- 
bey’s world. Exacting and harassing as ever, it goes on 
without her; and she, a by no means bright or particular 
star, moves in her little orbit in the corner of another 
system, and knows it quite well, and comes, and cries, 
and goes away, and is satisfied. Verily Miss Tox is 
easier of satisfaction than the world that troubles Mr 
Dombey so much ! 

At the counting-house, the clerks discuss the great 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


115 


disaster in all its lights and shades, but chiefly wonder 
who will get Mr. Carker’s place. They are generally 
of opinion that it will be shorn of some of its emolu- 
ments, and made uncomfortable by newly devised checks 
and restrictions ; and those who are beyond all hope 
of it, are quite sure they would rather not have it, and 
don’t at all envy the person for whom it may prove to 
be reserved. Nothing like the prevailing sensation has 
existed in the counting-house since Mr. Dombey’s little 
son died ; but all such excitements there take a social, 
not to say jovial turn, and lead to the cultivation of 
good fellowship. A reconciliation is established on this 
propitious occasion between the acknowledged wit of 
the counting-house and an aspiring rival, with whom 
he has been at deadly feud for months ; and a little 
dinner being proposed, in commemoration of their hap- 
pily restored amity, takes place at a neighboring tav- 
ern ; the wit in the chair ; the rival acting as Vice- 
President. The orations following the removal of the 
cloth are opened by the chair, who says, gentlemen, he 
can’t disguise from himself that this is not a time for 
private dissensions. Recent occurrences to which he 
need not more particularly allude, but which have not 
been altogether without notice in some Sunday papers, 
and in a daily paper which he need, not name (here 
every other member of the company names it in an 
audible murmur), have caused him to reflect ; and he 
feels that for him and Robinson to have any personal 
differences at such a moment, would be forever to deny 
that good feeling in the general cause, for which he has 
reason to think and hope that the gentlemen in Dombey’s 
House have always been distinguished. Robinson replies 
to this like a man and a brother ; and one gentleman 


110 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


who has been in the office three years, under continual 
notice to quit on account of lapses in his arithmetic, ap- 
pears in a perfectly new light, suddenly bursting out with 
a thrilling speech, in which he says, May their respected 
chief never again know the desolation which has fallen 
on his hearth ! and says a great variety of things, be- 
ginning with “ May he never again/’ which are received 
with thunders of applause. In short, a most delightful 
evening is passed, only interrupted by a difference be- 
tween two juniors, who, quarrelling about the probable 
amount of Mr. Carker’s late receipts per annum, defy 
each other with decanters, and are taken out greatly ex- 
cited. Soda-water is in general request at the office next 
day, and most of the party deem the bill an imposition. 

As to Perch, the messenger, he is in a fair way of 
being ruined for life. He finds himself again, constantly 
in bars of public-houses, being treated and lying dread- 
fully. It appears that he met everybody concerned in 
the late transaction, everywhere, and said to them, “ Sir,” 
or “ Madam,” as the case was, “ why do you look so 
pale ? ,r at which each fhuddered from head to foot, and 
said, “ Oh, Perch ! ” and ran away. Either the conscious- 
ness of these enormities, or the reaction consequent on 
liquor, reduces Mr. Perch to an extreme state of low 
spirits at that hour of the evening when he usually seeks 
consolation in the society of Mrs. Perch at Balls Pond ; 
and Mrs. Perch frets a good deal, for she fears his con- 
fidence in woman is shaken now, and that he half expects 
on coming home at night to find her gone off with some 
Viscount. 

Mr. Domb^y’s servants are becoming, at the same 
time, quite dissipated, and unfit for other service. They 
have hot suppers every night, and “ talk it over ” with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


117 


smoking drinks upon trhe board. Mr. Towlinson is 
always maudlin after half-past ten, and frequently begs 
to know whether he didn’t say that no good would ever 
come of living in a corner house ? They whisper about 
Miss Florence, and wonder where she is ; but agree 
that if Mr. Dombey don’t know, Mrs. Dombey does. 
This brings them to the latter, of whom cook says, she 
had a stately way though, hadn’t she ? But she was too 
high ! They all agree that she was too high, and Mr. 
Towlinson’s old flame the house-maid (who is very vir- 
tuous), entreats that you will never talk to her any 
more about people who holds their heads up, as if the 
ground wasn’t good enough for ’em. 

Everything that is said and done about it, except by 
Mr. Dombey, is done in chorus. Mr Dombey and the 
world are alone together. 


118 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER LII. 

SECRET INTELLIGENCE. 

Good Mrs. Brown and her daughter Alice, kept si- 
lent company together, in their own dwelling. It was 
early in the evening, and late in the spring. But a few 
days had elapsed since Mr. Dombey had told Major 
Bagstock of his singular intelligence, singularly obtained, 
which might turn out to be valueless, and might turn 
out to be true ; and the world was not satisfied yet. 

The mother and daughter sat for a long time without 
interchanging a word : almost without motion. The old 
woman’s face was shrewdly anxious and expectant ; that 
of her daughter was expectant too, but in a less sharp 
degree, and sometimes it darkened, as if with gathering 
disappointment and incredulity. The old woman, with- 
out heeding these changes in its expression, though her 
eyes were often turned towards it, sat mumbling and 
munching, and listening confidently. 

Their abode, though poor and miserable, was not so 
utterly wretched as in the days when only Good Mrs. 
Brown inhabited it. Some few attempts at cleanliness 
and order were manifest, though made in a reckless, 
gypsy way, that might have connected them, at a 
glance, with the younger woman. The shades of even- 
ing thickened and deepened as the two kept silence, 
until the blackened walls were nearly lost in the pre- 
vailing gloom. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


119 


Then Alice broke the silence which had lasted so 
long, and said : 

“ You may give him up, mother. He’ll not come 
here.” 

“ Death give him up ! ” returned the old woman, im- 
patiently. “ He will come here.” 

“ We shall see,” said Alice. 

“ We shall see him” returned her mother. 

“And doomsday,” said the daughter. 

“ You think I’m in my second childhood, I know ! ” 
croaked the old woman. “ That’s the respect and duty 
that I get from my own gal, but I’m wiser than you 
take me for. He’ll come. T’other day when I touched 
his coat in the street, he looked round as if I was a 
toad. But Lord, to see him when I said their names, 
and asked him if he’d like to find out where they 
was ! ” 

“ Was it so angry ? ” asked her daughter, roused to 
interest in a moment. 

“ Angry ? ask if it was bloody. That’s more like 
the word. Angry? Ha, ha! To call that only angry!” 
said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard, and light- 
ing a candle, which displayed the workings of her mouth 
to ugly advantage, as she brought it to the table. “ I 
might as well call your face only angry, when you think 
or talk about ’em.” 

It was something different from that, truly, as she sat 
as still as a crouched tigress, with her kindling eyes. 

“ Hark ! ” said the old woman, triumphantly. “ I 
hear a step coming. It’s not the tread of any one that 
lives about here, or comes this way often. We don’t 
walk like that. We should grow proud on such neigh 
bors ! Do you hear him?” 


120 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ I believe you are right, mother,” replied Alice, in a 
low voice. “ Peace ! open the door.” 

As she drew herself within her shawl, and gathered 
it about her, the old woman complied ; and peering out, 
and beckoning, gave admission to Mr. Dombey, who 
stopped when he had set his foot within the door, and 
looked distrustfully around. 

“ It’s a poor place for a great gentleman like your 
worship,” said the old woman, courtesying and chatter* 
ing. “ I told you so, but there’s no harm in it.” 

u Who is that ? ” asked Mr. Dombey, looking at her 
companion. 

“ That’s my handsome daughter,” said the old woman. 
“ Your worship won’t mind her. She knows all about it.” 

A shadow fell upon his face not less expressive than 
if he had groaned aloud, “ Who does not know all about 
it ! ” but he looked at her steadily, and she without any 
acknowledgment of his presence, looked at him. The 
shadow on his face was darker when he turned his 
glance away from her ; and even then it wandered back 
again, furtively, as if he were haunted by her bold eyes, 
and some remembrance they inspired. 

Woman,” said Mr. Dombey to the old witch who 
was chuckling and leering close at his elbow, and 
who, when he turned to address her, pointed stealthily 
at her daughter, and rubbed her hands, and pointed 
again, “ Woman ! I believe that I am weak and for- 
getful of my station in coming here, but you know why 
I come, and what you offered when you stopped me in 
the street the other day. What is it that you have to 
tell me concerning what I want to know ; and how does 
it happen that I can find voluntary intelligence in a 
hovel like this,” with a disdainful glance about him. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


12 J 


u when I have exerted my power and means to obtain 
it in vain ? I do not think,” he said, after a moment’s 
pause, during which he had observed her, sternly, “ that 
you are so audacious as to mean to trifle with me, or 
endeavor to impose upon me. But if you have that 
purpose, you had better stop on the threshold of your 
scheme. My humor is not a trifling one, and my ac- 
knowledgment will be severe.” 

“ Oh a proud, hard gentleman 1 ” chuckled the old 
woman, shaking her head, and rubbing her shrivelled 
hands, “ oh hard, hard, hard ! But your worship shall 
see with your own eyes and hear with your own ears ; 
not with ours — and if your worship’s put upon their 
track, you won’t mind paying something for it, will you, 
honorable deary?” 

“ Money,” returned Mr. Dombey, apparently relieved, 
and reassured by this inquiry, “will bring about unlikely 
things, I know. It may turn even means as unexpected 
and unpromising as these, to account. Yes. For any 
reliable information I receive, I will pay. But I must 
have the information first, and judge for myself of its 
value.” 

“ Do you know nothing more powerful than money?” 
asked the younger woman, without rising, or altering her 
attitude. 

“ Not here, I should imagine,” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ You should know of something that is more power- 
ful elsewhere, as I judge,” she returned. “ Do you know 
nothing of a woman’s anger ? ” 

“ You have a saucy tongue, jade,” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Not usually,” she answered, without any show of 
emotion : “ I speak to you now, that you may under- 
stand us better, and rely more on us. A woman’s anger 


122 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


is pretty much the same here, as in your fine house. 1 
am angry. I have been so, many years. I have as 
good cause for my anger as you have for yours, and its 
object is the same man.” 

He started, in spite of himself, and looked at her with 
astonishment. 

“ Yes,” she said, with a kind of laugh. “ Wide as the 
distance may seem between us, it is so. How it is so, is 
no matter ; that is my story, and I keep my story to my- 
self. I would bring you and him together, because I 
have a rage against him. My mother there, is avari- 
cious and poor ; and she would sell any tidings she could 
glean, or anything, or anybody, for money. It is fair 
enough perhaps, that you should pay her some, if she 
can help you to what you want to know. But that is 
not my motive. I have told you what mine is, and it 
would be as strong and all sufficient with me if you hag- 
gled and bargained with her for a sixpence. I have done. 
My saucy tongue says no more, if you wait here till sun- 
rise to-morrow.” 

The old woman, who had shown great uneasiness dur- 
ing this speech which had a tendency to depreciate her 
expected gains, pulled Mr. Dombey softly by the sleeve, 
and whispered to him not to mind her. He glanced at 
them both, by turns, with a haggard look, and said, in a 
deeper voice than was usual with him : 

“ Go on — what do you know ? ” 

“ Oh, not so fast, your worship ! we must wait for 
some one,” answered the old woman. “ It’s to be got 
from some one else — wormed out — screwed and twisted 
from him.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

u Patience,” she croaked, laying her hand, like a claw, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


123 


upon his arm. “ Patience. I’ll get at it. I know I 
can ! If he was to hold it back from me,” said Good 
Mrs. Brown, crooking her ten fingers, “ I’d tear it out 
of him ! ” 

Mr. Dombey followed her with his eyes as she hob- 
bled to the door, and looked out again : and then his 
glance sought her daughter ; but she remained impas- 
sive, silent, and regardless of him. 

“ Do you tell me* woman,” he said, when the bent 
figure of Mrs. Brown came back, shaking its head and 
chattering to itself, “that there is another person ex- 
pected here ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” said the old woman, looking up into his face, 
and nodding. 

“ From whom you are to extract the intelligence that 
is to be useful to me ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the old woman nodding again. 

u A stranger ? ” 

“ Chut ! ” said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. 
* What signifies ! Well, well ; no. No stranger to your 
worship. But he won’t see you. He’d be afraid of you, 
and wouldn’t talk. You’ll stand behind that door, and 
judge him for yourself. We don’t ask to be believed on 
trust. What ! Your worship doubts the room behind 
the door? Oh the suspicion of you rich gentlefolks! 
Look at it, then.” 

Her sharp eye had detected an involuntary expres- 
sion of this feeling on his part, which was not unreason- 
able under the circumstances. In satisfaction of it she 
now took the candle to the door she spoke of. Mr. 
Dombey looked in ; assured himself that it was an 
empty, crazy room ; and signed to her to put the light 
back in its place 


124 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Plow long,” he asked, “ before this person comes ? ” 

“ Not long,” she answered. “ Would your worship sit 
down for a few odd minutes ? ” 

He made no answer ; but began pacing the room with 
an irresolute air, as if he were undecided whether to re- 
main or depart, and as if he had some quarrel with him- 
self for being there at all. But soon his tread grew 
slower and heavier, and his face more sternly thoughtful; 
as the object with which he had come, fixed itself in his 
mind, and dilated there again. 

While he thus walked up and down with his eyes on 
the ground, Mrs. Brown, in the chair from which she 
had risen to receive him, sat listening anew. The mo- 
notony of his step, or the uncertainty of age, made her 
so slow of hearing, that a footfall without had sounded 
in her daughter’s ears for some moments, and she had 
looked up hastily to warn her mother of its approach, 
before the old woman was roused by it. But then she 
started from her seat, and whispering “ Here he is ! ” 
hurried her visitor to his place of observation, and put a 
bottle and glass upon the table, with such alacrity as to 
be ready to fling her arms round the neck of Rob the 
Grinder on his appearance at the door. 

“ And here’s my bonny boy,” cried Mrs. Brown, “ at 
last ! — oho, oho ! You’re like my own son, Robby ! ” 
“Oh! Misses Brown!” remonstrated the Grinder. 
u Don’t ! Can’t you be fond of a cove without squeedg- 
ing and throttling of him ! Take care of the bird-cage 
in my hand, will you ? ” 

“ Thinks of a bird-cage afore me ! ” cried the old 
woman, apostrophizing the ceiling. “ Me that feels more 
than a mother for him ! ” 

“ Well, I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Misses 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


125 


Brown,” said the unfortunate youth, greatly aggravated ; 
?< but you’re so jealous of a cove. I’m very fond of 
you myself, and all that, of course ; but I don’t smother 
you, do I, Misses Brown ? ” 

He looked and spoke if he would have been far 
from objecting to do so, however, on a favorable occa- 
sion. 

“ And to talk about bird-cages, too ! ” whimpered the 
Grinder. “ As if that was a crime ! Why, look’ee 
here ! Do you know who this belongs to ? ” 

“ To Master, dear ? ” said the old woman with a grin. 
“Ah ! ” replied the Grinder, lifting a large cage tied 
up in a wrapper, on the table, and untying it with his 
teeth and hands. “ It’s our parrot, this is.” 

“ Mr. Carker’s parrot, Rob ? ” 

“ Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown ? ” re- 
turned the goaded Grinder. “ What do you go naming 
names for ? I’m blest,” said Rob, pulling his hair with 
both hands in the exasperation of his feelings, “if she 
a’n’t enough to make a cove run wild ! ” 

“ What ! Do you snub me, thankless boy ! ” cried the 
old woman, with ready vehemence. 

“ Good gracious, Misses Brown, no ! ” returned the 
Grinder, with tears in his eyes. “ Was there ever such 
a I — Don’t I dote upon you, Misses Brown ? ” 

“ Do you, sweet Rob ? Do you truly, chickabiddy ? ” 
With that, Mrs. Brown held him in her fond embrace 
once more ; and did not release him until he had made 
several violent and ineffectual struggles with his legs, 
and his hair was standing on end all over his head. 

“ Oh ! ” returned the Grinder, “ what a thing it is to 
be perfectly pitched into with affection like this here. I 
wish she was — . How have you been, Misses Brown ? ” 


i26 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ All ! Not here since this night week ! ” said the old 
woman, contemplating him with a look of reproach. 

“ Good gracious, Misses Brown,” returned the Grin- 
der, “ I said to-night’s a week, that I’d come to-night, 
didn’t I ? And here I am. How you do go on ! I wish 
you’d be a little rational, Misses Brown. I’m hoarse 
with saying things in my defence, and my very face is 
shiny with being hugged.” He rubbed it hard with his 
sleeve, as if to remove the tender polish in question. 

“ Drink a little drop to comfort you, my Robin,” said 
the old woman, filling the glass from the bottle and giv- 
ing it to him. 

44 Thank’ee, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder. 
4 * Here’s your health. And long may you — et cetrer.” 
Which to judge from the expression of his face, did not 
include any very choice blessings. “ And here’s her 
health,” said the Grinder, glancing at Alice, who sat 
with her eyes fixed, as it seemed to him, on the wall 
behind him, but in reality on Mr. Dombey’s face at the 
door, 44 and wishing her the same and many of ’em ! ” 

He drained the glass to these two sentiments, and set 
it down. 

44 Well, I say, Misses Brown ! ” he proceeded. 44 To 
go on a little rational now. You’re a judge of birds, and 
up to their ways, as I know to my cost.” 

44 Cost ! ” repeated Mrs. Brown. 

44 Satisfaction, I mean,” returned the Grinder. “ How 
you do take up a cove, Misses Brown ! You’ve put it 
all out of my head again.” 

44 Judge of birds, Robby,” suggested the old woman. 

44 Ah ! ” said the Grinder, 44 Well, I’ve got to take care 
of this parrot — certain things being sold, and a certain 
establishment broke up — and as 1 don’t want no notice 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


127 


took at present, I wish you’d attend to her for a week or 
so, and give her board and lodging, will you ? If I must 
come backwards and forwards,” mused the Grinder with 
a dejected face, “ I may as well have something to come 
for.” 

“ Something to come for ? ” screamed the old woman. 

“ Besides you, I mean, Misses Brown,” returned the 
craven Rob. “ Not that I want any inducement but 
yourself, Misses Brown, I’m sure. Don’t begin again, 
for goodness’ sake.” 

“ He don’t care for me ! He don’t care for me, as I 
care for him ! ” cried Mrs. Brown, lifting up her skinny 
hands. “ But I’ll take care of his bird.” 

“ Take good care of it too, you know, Misses Brown,” 
said Rob, shaking his head. “ If you was so much as to 
stroke its feathers once the wrong way, I believe it would 
be found out.” 

“ Ah, so sharp as that, Rob ? ” said Mrs. Brown, 
quickly. 

“ Sharp, Misses Brown ! ” repeated Rob. “But this 
is not to be talked about.” 

Checking himself abruptly, and not without a fearful 
glance across the room, Rob filled the glass again, and 
having slowly emptied it, shook his head, and began to 
draw his fingers across and across the wires of the par- 
rot’s cage, by way of a diversion from the dangerous 
theme that had just been broached. 

The old woman eyed him slyly, and hitching her chair 
nearer his, and looking in at the parrot, who came down 
from the gilded dome at her call, said : 

“ Out of place now, Robby ? ” 

“ Never you mind, Misses Brown,” returned the Grin- 
der shortlv. 


128 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“Board wages, perhaps, Bob?” said Mrs. Brown. 

“ Pretty Polly ! ” said the Grinder. 

The old woman darted a glance at him that might 
have warned him to consider his ears in danger, but it 
was his turn to look in at the parrot now, and however 
expressive his imagination may have made her angry 
scowl, it was unseen by his bodily eyes. 

“ I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, Rob,” 
said the old woman, in a wheedling voice, but with in* 
creased malignity of aspect. 

Rob was so absorbed in contemplation of the parrot, 
and in trolling his forefinger on the wires, that he made 
no answer. 

The old woman had her clutch within a hair’s-breadth 
of his shock of hair as it stooped over the table ; but she 
restrained her fingers, and said, in a voice that choked 
with its efforts to be coaxing : 

“ Robby, my child.” 

“ Well, Misses Brown,” returned the Grinder. 

“ I say, I wonder Master didn’t take you with him, 
dear.” 

“ Never you mind, Misses Brown,” returned the Grin- 
der. 

Mrs. Brown instantly directed the clutch of her right 
hand at his hair, and the clutch of her left hand at his 
throat, and held on to the object of her fond affecticn 
with such extraordinary fury, that his face began to 
blacken in a moment. 

“ Misses Brown ! ” exclaimed the Grinder, “ let go, 
will you ! What are you doing of ! Help, young 
woman ! Misses Brow — Brow — ! ” 

The young woman, however, equally unmoved by his 
direct appeal to her, and by his inarticulate utterance. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


129 


remained quite neutral, until, after struggling with his 
assailant into a corner, Rob disengaged himself, and 
stood there panting and fenced in by his own elbows, 
while the old woman, panting too, and stamping with 
rage and eagerness, appeared to be collecting her ener- 
gies for another swoop upon him. At this crisis Alice 
interposed her voice, but not in the Grinder’s favor, by 
saying, 

“ Well done, mother. Tear him to pieces ! ” 

“ What, young woman ! ” blubbered Rob ; “ are you 
against me too ? What have I been and done ? What 
am I to be tore to pieces for, I should like to know? 
Why do you take and choke a cove who has never done 
you any harm, neither of you ? Call yourselves females, 
too ! ” said the frightened and afflicted Grinder, with his 
coat-cuff at his eye. “ I’m surprised at you ! Where’s 
your feminine tenderness ? ” 

“ You thankless dog ! ” gasped Mrs. Brown. “ You 
impudent, insulting dog ! ” 

Si What have I been and done to go and give you 
offence, Misses Brown ? ” retorted the tearful Rob 
“ You was very much attached to me a minute ago.” 

“ To cut me off with his short answers and his sulky 
words,” said the old woman. “ Me ! Because I happen 
to be curious to have a little bit of gossip about Master 
and the lady, to dare to play at fast and loose with me I 
But I’ll talk to you no more, my lad. Now go ! ” 

u I am sure, Misses Brown,” returned the abject 
Grinder, “I never insiniwated that I wished to go. 
Don’t talk like that, Misses Brown, if you please.” 

“ I won’t talk at all,” said Mrs. Brown, with an 
action of her crooked fingers that made him shrink 
into half his natural compass in the corner. “ Not 

VOL. IV. 9 


130 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


another word with him shall pass my lips. He’s an 
ungrateful hound. I cast him off. Now let him go ! 
And I’ll slip those after him that shall talk too much ; 
that won’t be shook away ; that’ll hang to him like 
leeches, and slink arter him like foxes. What ! He 
knows ’em. He knows his old games and his old ways. 
If he’s forgotten ’em, they’ll soon remind him. Now 
let him go, and see how he’ll do Master’s business, 
and keep Master’s secrets, with such company always 
following him up and down. Ha, ha, ha ! He’ll find 
’em a different sort from you and me, Ally ; close as 
he is with you and me. Now let him go, now let 
him go ! ” 

The old woman, to the unspeakable dismay of the 
Grinder, walked her twisted ' figure round and round 
in a ring of some four feet in diameter, constantly re- 
peating these words, and shaking her fist above her 
head, and working her mouth about. 

“ Misses Brown,” pleaded Rob, coming a little out 
of his corner, “ I’m sure you wouldn’t injure a cove, 
on second thoughts, and in cold blood, would you ? ” 

“ Don’t talk to me,” said Mrs. Brown, still wrath- 
fully pursuing her circle. “ Now let him go, now let 
him go ! ” 

“Misses Brown,” urged the tormented Grinder, “ I 
didn’t mean to — Oh, what a thing it is for a cove to 
get into such a line as this ! — I was only careful of 
talking, Misses Brown, because I always am, on ac- 
count of his being up to everything ; but I might have 
known it wouldn’t have gone any farther. I’m sure 
I’m quite agreeable,” with a wretched face, “ for any 
little bit of gossip, Misses Biown. Don’t go on like 
this, if you please. Oh, couldn’t you have the good* 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


131 


Dess to put in a word for a miserable cove, here ! ” said 
the Grinder, appealing in desperation to the daughter. 

“ Come, mother, you hear what he says,” she inter- 
posed, in her stern voice, and with an impatient action 
of her head ; “ try him once more, and if you fall out 
with him again, ruin him, if you like, and have done 
with him.” 

Mrs. Brown, moved as it seemed by this very tender 
exhortation, presently began to howl ; and softening by 
degrees, took the apologetic Grinder to her arms, who 
embraced her with a face of unutterable woe, and like 
a victim as he was, resumed his former seat, close by 
the side of his venerable friend ; whom he suffered, not 
without much constrained sweetness of countenance, com- 
bating very expressive physiognomical revelations of an 
opposite character, to draw his arm through hers, and 
keep it there. 

“ And how's Master, deary dear ? ” said Mrs. Brown, 
when, sitting in this amicable posture, they had pledged 
each other. 

“ Hush ! If you'd be so good, Misses Brown, as to 
speak a little lower,” Rob implored. “ Why, he's pretty 
well, thank'ee, I suppose.” 

“ You’re not out of place, Robby ? ” said Mrs. Brown 
in a wheedling tone. 

“ Why, I’m not exactly out of place nor in,” faltered 
Rob. “I — I’m still in pay, Misses Brown.” 

“ And nothing to do, Rob ? ” 

“Nothing particular to do just now, Misses Brown, 
but to — keep my eyes open,” said the Grinder, roll- 
ing them in a forlorn way. 

“ Master abroad, Rob ? ” 

“ Oh, for goodness’ sake, Misses Brown, couldn’t you 


132 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


gossip with a cove about anything else ! ” cried the 
Grinder, in a burst of despair. 

The impetuous Mrs. Brown rising directly, the tor- 
tured Grinder detained her, stammering “ Ye-yes, Misses 
Brown, I believe he’s abroad. What’s she staring at ? ” 
he added, in allusion to the daughter, whose eyes were 
fixed upon the face that now again looked out behind 
him. 

“ Don’t mind her, lad,” said the old woman, holding 
him closer to prevent his turning round. “ It’s her way 
— her way. Tell me, Rob. Did you ever see the 
lady, deary ? ” 

“ Oh, Misses Brown, what lady ? ” cried the Grinder 
in a tone of piteous supplication. 

“ What lady ? ” she retorted. “ The lady ; Mrs. Dom- 
bey.” 

“ Yes, I believe I see her once,” replied Rob. 

“ The night she went away, Robby, eh ? ” said the 
old woman in his ear, and taking note of every change 
in his face, “ Aha ! I know it was that night.” 

“ Well, if you know it was that night, you know, 
Misses Brown,” replied Rob, “ it’s no use putting 
pinchers into a cove to make him say so.” 

“ Where did they go that night, Rob ? Straight 
away ? How did they go ? Where did you see her ? 
Did she laugh ? Did she cry ? Tell me all about 
it,” cried (he old hag, holding him closer yet, patting 
the hand that was drawn through his arm against her 
other hand, and searching every line in his face with 
her bleared eyes. “ Come ! Begin ! I want to be 
told all about it. Wlmt, Rob, boy ! You and me can 
keep a secret together, eh ? We’ve done so before 
now. Wh'^re did they go first, Rob?” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


133 


The wretched Grinder made a gasp, and a pause. 

“ Are you dumb ? ” said the old woman, angrily. 

“ Lord, Misses Brown, no ! You expect a cove to 
be a flash of lightning. I wish I was the electric 
fluency ,” muttered the bewildered Grinder. “ I’d have 
a shock at somebody, that would settle their business.” 

“ What do you say ? ” asked the old woman, with a 
grin. 

“I’m wishing my love to you, Misses Brown,” re- 
turned the false Rob, seeking consolation in the glass. 
“ Where did they go to first, was it ! Him and her 
do you mean ? ” 

“ Ah ! ” said the old woman, eagerly. “ Them two.” 

“ Why they didn’t go nowhere — not together, I 
mean,” answered Rob. 

The old woman looked at him, as though she had 
a strong impulse upon her to make another clutch at 
his head and throat, but was restrained by a certain 
dogged mystery in his face. 

“ That was the art of it,” said the reluctant Grinder ; 
“ that’s the way nobody saw ’em go, or has been able to 
say how they did go. They went different ways, I tell 
you, Misses Brown.” 

“ Ay, ay, ay ! To meet at an appointed place,” 
chuckled the old woman, after a moment’s silent and 
keen scrutiny of his face. 

“Why, if they weren’t a-going to meet somewhere, 
l suppose they might as well have stayed at home, 
mightn’t they, Misses Brown ? ” returned the unwilling 
Grinder. 

“Well, Rob? Well?” said the old woman, draw- 
ing his arm yet tighter through her own, as if, in her 
eagerness, she were afraid of his slipping away. 


134 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ What, haven’t we talked enough yet, Misses Brown ? n 
returned the Grinder, who, between his sense of injury > 
his sense of liquor, and his sense of being on the rack, 
had become so lachrymose, that at almost every answer 
he scooped his coat-cuff into one or other of his eyes, 
and uttered an unavailing whine of remonstrance. “ Did 
she laugh that night, was it ? Didn’t you ask if she 
laughed, Misses Brown ? ” 

“ Or cried ? ” added the old woman, nodding assent. 

“ Neither,” said the Grinder. “ She kept as steady 
when she and me — oh, I see you will have out of 
me, Misses Brown ! But take your solemn oath now, 
that you’ll never tell anybody.” 

This Mrs. Brown very readily did : being naturally 
Jesuitical ; and having no other intention in the matter 
than that her concealed visitor should hear for him- 
self. 

“ She kept as steady, then, when she and me went 
down to Southampton,” said the Grinder, “ as a image. 
In the morning she was just the same, Misses Brown. 
And when she went away in the packet before daylight, 
by herself — me pretending to be her servant, and seeing 
her safe aboard — she was just the same. Now, are you 
contented, Mrs. Brown ? ” 

“ No, Rob. Not yet,” answered Mrs. Brown, deci- 
sively. 

“ Oh here’s a woman for you ! ” cried the unfortunate 
Rob, in an outburst of feeble lamentation over his own 
helplessness. “ What did you wish to know next, Mis- 
ses Brown ? ” 

“ What became of Master ? Where did he go ? ” 
She inquired, still holding him tight, and looking close 
into his face, with her sharp eyes. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


135 


u Upon my soul, I don’t know, Misses Brown, an- 
Bwered Rob. “ Upon my soul I don’t know what he 
did, nor where he went, nor anything about him. I 
only know what he said to me as a caution to hold my 
tongue, when we parted ; and I tell you this, Mrs. 
Brown, as a friend, that sooner than ever repeat a word 
of what we’re saying now, you had better take and 
shoot yourself, or shut yourself up in this house, and 
set it afire, for there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, to be 
revenged upon you. You don’t know him half as well 
as I do, Misses Brown. You’re never safe from him, I 
tell you.” 

“ Haven’t I taken an oath,” retorted the old woman, 
“ and won’t I keep it ? ” 

“ Well, I’m sure I hope you will, Misses Brown,” 
returned Rob, somewhat doubtfully, and not without a 
latent threatening in his manner. “ For your own sake, 
quite as much as mine.” 

He looked at her as he gave her this friendly cau- 
tion, and emphasized it with a nodding of his head ; but 
finding it uncomfortable to encounter the yellow face 
with its grotesque action, and the ferret eyes with their 
keen old wintry gaze, so close to his own, he looked 
down uneasily and sat shuffling in his chair, as if he 
were trying to bring himself to a sullen declaration that 
he would answer no more questions. The old woman, 
still holding him as before, took this opportunity of rais- 
ing the forefinger of her right hand, in the air, as a 
stealthy signal to the concealed observer to give partic- 
ular attention to what was about to follow. 

“ Rob,” she said, in her most coaxing tone. 

“ Good gracious, Misses Brown, what’s the matter 
now ? ” returned the exasperated Grinder. 


136 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Rob ! where did the lady and Master appoint to 
meet ? ” 

Rob shuffled more and more, and looked up and looked 
down, and bit his thumb, and dried it on his waistcoat, 
and finally said, eying his tormentor askant, “ How should 
I know, Misses Brown ? ” 

The old woman held up her finger again, as before, 
and replying, “ Come lad ! It’s no use leading me to 
that, and there leaving me. I want to know ” — waited 
for his answer. 

Rob, after a discomfited pause, suddenly broke out 
with, “ How can I pronounce the names of foreign 
places, Mrs. Brown ? What an unreasonable woman, 
you are ! ” 

“ But you have heard it said, Robby,” she retorted 
firmly, “and you know what it sounded like. Come!” 

“ I never heard it said, Misses Brown,” returned the 
Grinder. 

u Then,” retorted the old woman quickly, “ you have 
seen it written, and you can spell it.” 

Rob, with a petulant exclamation between laughing 
and crying — for he was penetrated with some admira- 
tion of Mrs. Brown’s cunning, even through this perse- 
cution — after some reluctant fumbling in his waistcoat 
pocket, produced from it a little piece of chalk. The 
old woman’s eyes sparkled when she saw it between 
his thumb and finger, and hastily clearing a space on 
the deal table, that he might write the word there, she 
once more made her signal with a shaking hand. 

“ Now I tell you beforehand, what it is, Misses 
Brown,” said Rob, “ it’s no use asking me anything else. 
I won’t answer anything else ; I can’t. How long it 
was to be before they met, or whose plan it was that 


POMBEY AND SON. 


137 


they was to go away alone, I don’t know no more than 
you do. I don’t know any more about it. If I was to 
tell you how I found out this word, you’d believe that. 
Shall I tell you, Misses Brown ? ” 

« Yes, Rob.” 

u Well then Misses Brown. The way — now you 
won’t ask any more, you know ? ” said Rob, turning 
his eyes, which wSre now fast getting drowsy and stupid, 
upon her. 

44 Not another word,” said Mrs. Brown. 

44 Well then, the way was this. When a certain per- 
son left the lady with me, he put a piece of paper with 
a direction written on it in the lady’s hand, saying it 
was in case she should forget. She wasn’t afraid of 
forgetting, for she tore it up as soon as his back was 
turned, and when I put up the carriage-steps, I shook 
out one of the pieces — she sprinkled the rest out of 
the window, I suppose, for there was none there after- 
wards, though 1 looked for ’em. There was only one 
word on it, and that was this; if you must and will 
know. But remember! You’re upon your oath, Misses 
Brown ! ” 

Mrs. Brown knew that, she said. Rob, having noth- 
ing more to say, began to chalk, slowly and laboriously, 
on the table. 

“ 4 D,’ ” the old woman read aloud, when he had 
formed the letter. 

44 Will you hold your tongue, Misses Brown ? ” he 
exclaimed, covering it with his hand, and turning impa- 
liently upon her, “ I won’t have it read out. Be quiet, 
will you ! ” 

44 Then write large, Rob,” she returned, repeating her 
secret signal ; 44 for my eyes are not good, even at print.* 


138 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Muttering to himself, and returning to liis work with 
an ill-will, Rob went on with the word. As he bent his 
head down, the person for whose information he so un- 
consciously labored, moved from the door behind him to 
within a short stride of his shoulder, and looked eagerly 
towards the creeping track of his hand upon the table* 
At the same time, Alice, from her opposite chair, watched 
it narrowly as it shaped the letters, &nd repeated each 
one on her lips as he made it, without articulating it 
aloud. At the end of every letter her eyes and Mr. 
Dombey’s met, as if each of them sought to be confirmed 
by the other ; and thus they both spelt D. I. J. O. N. 

“ There ! ” said the Grinder, moistening the palm of 
his hand hastily, to obliterate the word ; and not content 
with smearing it out, rubbing and planing all trace of 
it away with his coat-sleeve, until the very color of the 
chalk was gone from the table. “ Now, I hope you’re 
contented, Misses Brown ! ” 

The old woman, in token of her being so, released his 
arm and patted his back ; and the Grinder, overcome 
with mortification, cross-examination, and liquor, folded 
his arms on the table, laid his head upon them, and 
fell asleep. 

Not until he had been heavily asleep some time, and 
was snoring roundly, did the old woman turn towards 
the door where Mr. Dombey stood concealed, and beckon 
him to come through the room, and pass out. Even 
then, she hovered over Rob, ready to blind him with 
her hands, or strike his head down, if he should raise 
it while the secret step was crossing to the door. But 
though her glance took sharp cognizance of the sleeper, 
it was sharp too for the waking man ; and when he 
touched her hand with his, and in spite of all his cau- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


131 


tion, made a chinking, golden sound, it was as bright and 
greedy as a raven’s. 

The daughter’s dark gaze followed him to the door, 
and noted well how pale he was, and how his hurried 
tread indicated that the least delay was an insupportable 
restraint upon him, and how he was burning to be ac- 
tive and away. As he closed the door behind him, she 
looked round at her mother.. The old woman trotted 
to her ; opened her hand to show what was within ; and 
tightly closing it again in her jealousy and avarice, 
whispered : 

“ What will he do, Ally ? ” 

“ Mischief,” said the daughter. 

“ Murder ? ” asked the old woman. 

“ He’s a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do 
that, for anything we can say, or he either.” 

Her glance was brighter than her mother’s, and the 
fire that shone in it was fiercer ; but her face was color- 
less, even to her lips. 

They said no more, but sat apart ; the mother com- 
muning with her money; the daughter with her thoughts ; 
the glance of each, shining in the gloom of the feebly 
lighted room. Rob slept and snored. The disregarded 
parrot only was in action. It twisted and pulled at the 
wires of its cage, with its crooked beak, and crawled up 
to the dome, and along its roof like a fly, and down again 
head-foremost, and shook, and bit, and rattled at every 
slender bar, as if it knew its Master’s danger, and was 
wild to force a passage out, and fly away to warn him 
of it 


to 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

MORE INTELLIGENCE 

There were two of the traitor’s own blood — his re* 
nounced brother and sister — on whom the weight of his 
guilt rested almost more heavily, at this time, than on 
the man whom he had so deeply injured. Prying and 
tormenting as the world was, it did Mr. Dombey the ser- 
vice of nerving him to pursuit and revenge. It roused 
his passion, stung his pride, twisted the one idea of his 
life into a new shape, and made some gratification of his 
wrath, the object into which his whole intellectual exist- 
ence resolved itself. All the stubbornness and implaca- 
bility of his nature, all its hard impenetrable quality, all 
its gloom and moroseness, all its exaggerated sense of 
personal importance, all its jealous disposition to resent 
the least flaw in the ample recognition of his importance, 
by others, set this way like many streams united into 
one, and bore him on upon their tide. The most im- 
petuously passionate and violently impulsive of mankind 
would have been a milder enemy to encounter than the 
sullen Mr. Dombey wrought to this. A wild beast 
would have been easier turned or soothed than the grave 
gentleman without a wrinkle in his starched cravat. 

But the very intensity of his purpose became almost a 
substitute for action in it. While he was yet uninformed 
of the traitor’s retreat, it served to divert his mind from 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


141 


his own calamity, and to entertain it with another pros- 
pect. The brother and sister of his false favorite had no 
such relief ; everything in their history, past and pres- 
ent, gave his delinquency a more afflicting meaning to 
them. 

The sister may have sometimes sadly thought that if 
she had remained with' him the companion and friend 
she had been once, he might have escaped the crime into 
which he had fallen. If she ever thought so, it was still 
without regret for what she had done, without the least 
doubt of her duty, without any pricing or enhancing of 
her self-devotion. But when this possibility presented it- 
self to the erring and repentant brother, as it sometimes 
did, it smote upon his heart with such a keen, reproachful 
touch as he could hardly bear. No idea of retort upon 
his cruel brother came into his mind. New accusation 
of himself, fresh inward lamentings over his own un- 
worthiness, and the ruin in which it was at once his con- 
solation and his self-reproach that he did not stand alone, 
were the sole kind of reflections to which the discovery 
gave rise in him. 

It was on the very same day whose evening set upon 
the last chapter, and when Mr. Dombey’s world was 
busiest with the elopement of his wife, that the window 
of the room in which the brother and sister sat at their 
early breakfast, was darkened by the unexpected shad- 
ow of a man coming to the little porch : which man was 
Perch the messenger. 

“ Tve stepped over from Balls Pond at a early hour,” 
said Mr. Perch, confidentially looking in at the room- 
door, and stopping on the mat to wipe his shoes all 
round, which had no mud upon them, “ agreeable to my 
instructions last night. They was, to be sure and bring 


142 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


a note to you, Mr. Carker, before you went cut in the 
morning. I should have been here a good hour and a 
half ago,” said Mr. Perch, meekly, “ but for the state of 
health of Mrs. P., who I thought I should have lost in 
the night, I do assure you, five distinct times.” 

“ Is your wife so ill ? ” asked Harriet. 

“ Why you see,” said Mr. Perch, first turning round 
to shut the door carefully, “ she takes what has happened 
in our House so much to heart, miss. Her nerves is so 
very delicate you see, and soon unstrung. Not but what 
the strongest nerves had good need to be shook, I’m 
sure. You feel it very much yourself, no doubts.” 

Harriet repressed a sigh, and glanced at her brother. 

“ I’m sure I feel it myself, in my humble way,” Mr. 
Perch went on to say, with a shake of his head, “ in a 
manner I couldn’t have believed if I hadn’t been called 
upon to undergo. It has almost the effect of drink upon 
me. I literally feels every morning as if I had been 
taking more than was good for me overnight.” 

Mr. Perch’s appearance corroborated this recital of 
his symptoms. There was an air of feverish lassitude 
about it, that seemed referable to drams ; and which in 
fact, might no doubt have been traced to those numerous 
discoveries of himself in the bars of public-houses, being 
treated and questioned, which he was in the daily habit 
of making. 

“ Therefore I can judge,” said Mr. Perch, shaking his 
head again, and speaking in a silvery murmur, “ of the 
feelings of such as is at all peculiarly sitiwated ri this 
most painful rewelation.” 

Here Mr. Perch waited to be confided in ; and receiv- 
ing no confidence, coughed behind his hand. This lead- 
ing to nothing, he coughed behind his hat ; and that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


143 


leading to nothing, he put his hat on the ground and 
Bought in his breast-pocket for the letter. 

“ If I rightly recollect, there was no answer,” said Mr. 
Perch, with an affable smile ; “ but perhaps you’ll be so 
good as cast your eye over it, sir.” 

John Carker broke the seal, which was Mr. Dombey’s, 
and possessing himself of the contents, which were very 
brief, replied, “ No. No answer is expected.” 

“ Then I shall wish you good-morning, miss,” said 
Perch, taking a step toward the door, “ and hoping, I’m 
sure, that you’ll not permit yourself to be more reduced 
in mind than you can help, by the late painful rewela- 
tion. The Papers,” said Mr. Perch, taking two steps 
back again, and comprehensively addressing both the 
brother and sister in a whisper of increased mystery, “ is 
more eager for news of it than you’d suppose possible. 
One of the Sunday ones, in a blue cloak and a white hat, 
that had previously offered for to bribe me — need I say 
with what success ? — was dodging about our court last 
night as late as twenty minutes after eight o’clock. I see 
him myself, with his eye at the counting-house key-hole, 
which being patent is impervious. Another one,” said 
Mr. Perch, “ with milintary frogs, is in the parlor of the 
King’s Arms all the blessed day. I happened, last 
week, to let a little obserwation fall there, and next 
morning, which was Sunday, I see it worked up in print, 
in a most surprising manner.” 

Mr. Perch resorted to his breast-pocket, as if to pro- 
duce the paragraph, but receiving no encouragement, 
pulled out his beaver-gloves, picked up his hat, and took 
his leave ; and before it was high noon, Mr. Perch had 
related to several select audiences at the King’s Arms 
and elsewhere, how Miss Carker, bursting infr tears, had 


144 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


caught him by both hands, and said, “Oh! dear, deal 
Perch, the sight of you is all the comfort I have left ! ” 
and how Mr. John Carker had said, in an awful voice, 
“ Perch, I disown him. Never let me hear him men- 
tioned as a brother more ! ” 

“ Dear John,” said Harriet, when they were left alone, 
and had remained silent for some few moments. “ There 
are bad tidings in that letter.” 

“Yes. But nothing unexpected,” he replied. “I saw 
the writer yesterday.” 

“ The writer ? ” 

“ Mr. Dombey. He passed twice through the count- 
ing-house while I was there. I had been able to avoid 
him before, but of course could not hope to do that long. 
I know how natural it was that he should regard my 
presence as something offensive; I felt it must be so, 
myself.” 

“ He did not say so ? ” 

“ No ; he said nothing : but I saw that his glance 
rested on me for a moment, and I was prepared for what 
would happen — for what has happened. I am dis- 
missed ! ” 

She looked as little shocked and as hopeful as she 
could, but it was distressing news, for many reasons. 

“ 4 1 need not tell you,’ ” said John Carker, reading 
the letter, “ ‘ why your name would henceforth have an 
unnatural sound, in however remote a connection with 
mine, or why the daily sight of any one who bears it, 
would be unendurable to me. I have to notify the ces- 
sation of all engagements between us, from this date, and 
to request that no renewal of any communication with 
me, or my establishment, be ever attempted by you.’ — ■ 
Enclosed is an equivalent in money to a generously long 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


145 


notice, and this is my discharge. Heaven knows, Har- 
riet, it is a lenient and considerate one, when we remem- 
ber all ! ” 

“ If it be lenient and considerate to punish you at all, 
John, for the misdeed of another,” she replied gently 
“ yes.” 

“ We have been an ill-omened race to him,” said John 
Carker. “ He has reason to shrink from the sound of 
our name, and to think that there is something cursed 
and wicked in our blood. I should almost think it too, 
Harriet, but for you.” 

“ Brother, don’t speak like this. If you have any 
special reason, as you say you have, and think you have 
— though I say, No ! — to love me, spare me the hear- 
ing of such wild mad words ! ” 

He covered his face with both his hands ; but soon 
permitted her, coming near him, to take one in her 
own. 

“ After so many years, this parting is a melancholy 
thing, I know,” said his sister, “and the cause of it is 
dreadful to us both. We have to live, too, and must 
look about us for the means. Well, well ! We can 
do so, undismayed. It is our pride, not our trouble, to 
strive, John, and to strive together.” 

A smile played on her lips, as she kissed his cheek, 
and entreated him to be of good cheer. 

“ Oh, dearest sister ! Tied, of your own noble will, 
to a ruined man ! whose reputation is blighted ; who has 
no friend himself, and has driven every friend of yours 
away ! ” 

“ John ! ” she laid her hand hastily upon his lips, “ for 
my sake ! In remembrance of our long companionship ! ” 
He was silent. “ Now let me tell you, dear,” quietly 
VOL. iv. 10 


/ 46 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


sitting by his side, “ I have, as you have, expected this ; 
and when I have been thinking of it, and fearing that it 
would happen, and preparing myself for it, as well as I 
could, I have resolved to tell you, if it should be so, that 
I have kept a secret from you, and that we have a 
friend.” 

“What’s our friend’s name, Harriet?” he answered 
with a sorrowful smile. 

“ Indeed I don’t know, but he once made a very 
earnest protestation to me of his friendship and his 
wish to serve us : and to this day I believe him.” 

“ Harriet ! ” exclaimed her wondering brother, “ where 
does this friend live ? ” 

44 Neither do I know that,” she returned. “ But he 
knows us both, and our history — all our little history, 
John. That is the reason why, at his own suggestion, I 
have kept the secret of his coming here, from you, lest 
his acquaintance with it should distress you.” 

44 Here ! Has he been here, Harriet ? ” 

44 Here, in this room. Once.” 

44 What kind of man ? ” 

44 Not young. 4 Gray-headed,’ as he said, 4 and fast 
growing grayer.’ But generous, and frank, and good, 
I am sure.” 

“ And only seen once, Harriet ? ” 

“ In this room only once,” said his sister, with the 
slightest and most transient glow upon her cheek ; 44 but 
when here, he entreated me to suffer him to see me once 
a week as he passed by in token of our being well, and 
continuing to need nothing at his hands. For I told him, 
when he proffered us any service he could render — 
which was the object of his visit — that we needt*d 
nothing.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


147 


“ And once a week ” — 

“ Once every week since then, and always or the same 
day, and at the same hour, he has gone past ; always on 
foot ; always going in the same direction — towards Lon- 
don ; and never pausing longer than to bow to me, and 
wave his hand cheerfully, as a kind guardian might. He 
made that promise when he proposed these curious inter- 
views, and has kept it so faithfully and pleasantly, that 
if I ever felt any trifling uneasiness about them in the 
beginning (which I don’t think I did, John ; his manner 
was so plain and true) it very soon vanished, and left me 
quite glad when the day was coming. Last Monday — 
the first since this terrible event — he did not go by ; 
and I have wondered whether his absence can have been 
in any way connected with what has happened.” 

“ How ? ” inquired her brother. 

“ I don’t know how. I have only speculated on the 
coincidence ; I have not tried to account for it. I feel 
sure he will return. When he does, dear John, let me 
tell him that I have at last spoken to you, and let me 
bring you together. He will certainly help us to a 
new livelihood. His entreaty was that he might do 
something to smooth my life and yours ; and I gave 
him my promise that if we ever wanted a friend, I 
would remember him. Then, his name was to be no 
secret.” 

“ Harriet,” said her brother, who had listened with 
close attention, u describe this gentleman to me. I 
surely ought to know one who knows me so well.” 

His sister painted, as vividly as she could, the features, 
stature, and dress of her visitor ; but John Carker, either 
from having no knowledge of the original, or from some 
thult in her description, or from some abstraction of his 


148 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


thoughts as he walked to and fro, pondering, could not 
recognize the portrait she presented to him. 

However, it was agreed between them that he should 
see the original when he next appeared. This concluded, 
the sister applied herself, with a less anxious breast, to 
her domestic occupations ; and the gray-haired man, 
late Junior of Dombey’s, devoted the first day of his 
unwonted liberty to working in the garden. 

It was quite late at night, and the brother was reading 
aloud while the sister plied her needle, when they were 
interrupted by a knocking at the door. In the atmos- 
phere of vague anxiety and dread that lowered about 
them in connection with their fugitive brother, this 
sound, unusual there, became almost alarming. The 
brother going to the door, the sister sat and listened 
timidly. Some one spoke to him, and he replied, and 
seemed surprised ; and after a few words, the two ap- 
proached together. 

“ Harriet,” said her brother, lighting in their late 
visitor, and speaking in a low voice, “ Mr. Morfin — 
the gentleman so long in Dombey’s house with James.” 

His sister started back, as if a ghost had entered. In 
the door-way stood the unknown friend, with the dark 
hair sprinkled with gray, the ruddy face, the broad clear 
brow, and hazel eyes whose secret she had kept so long ! 

“ John ! ” she said, half breathless. “ It is the gentle- 
man I told you of, to-day ! ” 

“ The gentleman, Miss Harriet,” said the visitor, com- 
ing in — for he had stopped a moment in the door -way, 
u is greatly relieved to hear you say that : he has been 
devising ways and means, all the way here, of explain- 
ing himsuf, and has been satisfied with none. Mr. John, 
l am not quite a stranger here. You were stricken with 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


149 


astonishment when you saw me at your door just now. 
I observe you are more astonished at present. Well! 
That’s reasonable enough under existing circumstances. 
If we were not such creatures of habit as we are, we 
shouldn’t have reason to be astonished half so often.'’ 

By this time, he had greeted Harriet with that agree- 
able mingling of cordiality and respect which she rec- 
ollected so well, and had sat down near her, pulled 
off his gloves, and thrown them into his hat upon the 
table. 

“ There’s nothing astonishing,” he said, “ in my hav- 
ing conceived a desire to see your sister, Mr. John, or in 
my having gratified it in my own way. As to the regu- 
larity of my visits since (which she may have mentioned 
to you), there is nothing extraordinary in that. They 
soon grew into a habit; and we are creatures of habit 
— creatures of habit ! ” 

Putting his hands into his pockets, and leaning back in 
his chair, he looked at the brother and sister as if it were 
interesting to him to see them together ; and went on to 
say, with a kind of irritable thoughtfulness: “It’s this 
same habit that confirms some of us, who are capable of 
better things, in Lucifer’s own pride and stubbornness — 
that confirms and deepens others of us in villany — more 
of us in indifference — that hardens us from day to day, 
according to the temper of our clay, like images, and 
leaves us as susceptible as images to new impressions 
and convictions. You shall judge of its influence on me, 
John. For more years than I need name, I had my 
small, an exactly defined share, in the management of 
Dombey’s house, and saw your brother (who has proved 
himself a scoundrel ! Your sister will forgive my being 
obliged to mention it) extending and expending his influ- 


150 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ence, until the business and its owner were his football ; 
and saw you toiling at your obscure desk every day ; and 
was quite content to be as little troubled as I might be, 
out of my own strip of duty, and to let everything about 
me go on, day by day, unquestioned, like a great machine 

— that was its habit and mine — and to take it all for 
granted, and consider it all right. My Wednesday nights 
came regularly round, our quartette parties came regu- 
larly off, my violoncello was in good tune, and there was 
nothing wrong in my world — or, if anything, not much 

— or little or much, it was no affair of mine.” 

“ I can answer for your being more respected and be- 
loved during all that time than anybody in the house, 
sir,” said John Carker. 

“ Pooh ! Good-natured and easy enough, I dare say,” 
returned the other, “ a habit I had. It suited the man- 
ager : it suited the man he managed : it suited me best 
of all. I did what was allotted to me to do, made no 
court to either of them, and was glad to occupy a station 
in which none was required. So I should have gone on 
till now, but that my room had a thin wall. You can 
tell your sister that it was divided from the manager’s 
room by a wainscot partition.” 

“ They were adjoining rooms ; had been one, perhaps, 
originally ; and were separated, as Mr. Morfin says,” 
said her brother, looking back to him for the resumption 
of his explanation. 

“ I have whistled, hummed tunes, gone accurately 
through the whole of Beethoven’s Sonata in B, to let 
him know that I was within hearing,” said Mr. Morfin ; 
‘ 6 but he never heeded me. It happened seldom enough 
that I was within hearing of anything of a private nature, 
certainly. But when I was, and couldn’t otherwise avoid 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


151 


knowing something of it, I walked out. I walked out 
once, John, during a conversation between two brothers, 
to which, in the beginning, young Walter Gay was a 
party. But I overheard some of it before I left the 
room. You remember it sufficiently, perhaps, to tell 
your sister what its nature was ? ” 

“ It referred, Harriet,” said her brother, in a low 
voice, “ to the past, and to our relative positions in the 
house.” 

“ Its matter was not new to me, but was presented in 
a new aspect. It shook me in my habit — the habit of 
nine tenths of the world — of believing that all was right 
about me, because I was used to it,” said their visitor ; 
“ and induced me to recall the history of the two broth- 
ers, and to ponder on it. I think it was almost the 
first time in my life when I fell into this train of reflec- 
tion — how will many things that are familiar, and quite 
matters of course to us now, look, when we come to see 
them from that new and distant point of view which we 
must all take up, one day or other? I was something 
less good-natured, as the phrase goes, after that morning, 
less easy and complacent altogether.” 

He sat for a minute or so, drumming with one hand 
on the table ; and resumed in a hurry, as if he were 
anxious to get rid of his confession. 

“ Before I knew what to do, or whether I could do 
anything, there was a second conversation between the 
same two brothers, in which their sister was mentioned. 
I had no scruples of conscience in suffering all the waifs 
and strays of that conversation to float to me as freely 
as they would. I considered them mine by right. After 
that, I came here to see the sister for myself. The first 
time I stopped at the garden-gate, I made a pretext of 


152 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


inquiring i.ito the character of a poor neighbor ; but I 
wandered out of that tract, and I tnink Miss Harriet 
mistrusted me. The second time I asked leave to come 
in ; came in ; and said what I wished to say. Your 
sister showed me reasons which I dared not dispute, for 
receiving no assistance from me then ; but I established 
a means of communication between us, which remained 
unbroken until within these few days, when I was pre- 
vented, by important matters that have lately devolved 
upon me, from maintaining them.” 

“ How little I have suspected this,” said John^Carker, 
* when I have seen you every day, sir ! If Harriet could 
have guessed your name ” — 

“ Why, to tell you the truth, John,” interposed the 
visitor, “ I kept it to myself for two reasons. I don’t 
know that the first might have been binding alone ; but 
one has no business to take credit for good intentions, 
and I made up my mind, at all events, not to disclose 
myself until I should be able to do you some real service 
or other. My second reason was, that I always hoped 
there might be some lingering possibility of your brother’s 
relenting towards you both ; and in that case, I felt that 
where there was the chance of a man of his suspicious, 
watchful character discovering that you had been secretly 
befriended by me, there was the chance of a new and 
fatal cau&e of division. I resolved, to be sure, at the 
risk of turning his displeasure against myself — which 
would have been no matter — to watch my opportunity 
of serving you with the head of the house ; but the dis- 
tractions of death, courtship, marriage, and domestic un- 
happiness, have left us no head but your brother for this 
long, long time. And it would have been better for us,” 
said the visitor, dropping his voice, “ to have been a life- 
less trunk.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


153 


He seemed conscious that these latter words had es- 
caped him against his will, and, stretching out a hand 
to the brother and a hand to the sister, continued : 

“ All I could desire to say, and more, I have now said 
All I mean goes beyond words, as I hope ycu under- 
stand and believe. The time has come, John — though 
most unfortunately and unhappily come — when I may 
help you without interfering with that redeeming strug- 
gle, which has lasted through so many years ; since you 
were discharged from it to-day by no act of your own. 
It is late ; I need say no more to-night. You will guard 
the treasure you have here, without advice or reminder 
from me.” 

With these words he rose to go. 

“ But go you first, John,” he said good-humoredly, 
u with a light, without saying what you want to say, 
whatever that may be ; ” John Carker’s heart was full, 
and he would have relieved it in speech, if he could ; 
“and let me have a word with your sister. We have 
talked alone before, and in this room too ; though it 
looks more natural with you here.” 

Following him out with his eyes, he turned kindly to 
Harriet, and said in a lower voice, and with an altered 
and graver manner : 

“ You wish to ask me something of the man whose 
sister it is your misfortune to be.” 

“ I dread to ask,” said Harriet. 

“ You have looked so earnestly at me more than 
once,” rejoined the visitor, “ that I think I can divine 
your question. Has he taken money ? Is it that ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He has not.” 

“ I thank Heaven ! ” said Harriet. “ For the sake 
of John.” 


154 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ That he has abused his trust in many ways,” said 
Mr. Morfin ; “ that he has oftener dealt and speculated 
to advantage for himself than for the house he repre- 
sented ; that he has led the house on, to prodigious ven- 
tures, often resulting in enormous losses ; that he has 
always pampered the vanity and ambition of his em- 
ployer, when it was his duty to have held them in check, 
and shown, as it was in his power to do, to what they 
tended here or there ; will not, perhaps, surprise you 
now. Undertakings have been entered on, to swell the 
reputation of the house for vast resources, and to exhibit 

it in magnificent contrast to other merchants’ houses, of 
. * 
which it requires a steady head to contemplate the pos- 
sibly — a few disastrous changes of affairs might render 
them the probably — ruinous consequences. In the 
midst of the many transactions of the house, in most 
parts of the world : a great labyrinth of which only he 
has held the clew : he has had the opportunity, and he 
seems to have used it, of keeping the various results 
afloat, when ascertained, and substituting estimates and 
generalities for facts. But latterly — you follow me, 
Miss Harriet ? ” 

u Perfectly, perfectly,” she answered, with her fright- 
ened face fixed on his. “ Pray tell me all the worst at 
once.” 

u Latterly, he appears to have devoted the greatest 
pains to making these results so plain and clear, that 
reference to the private books enables one to grasp them, 
numerous and varying as they are, with extraordinary 
ease. As if he had resolved to show his employer at 
one broad view what has been brought upon him by 
ministration to his ruling passion ! that it has been his 
constant practice to minister to that passion basely, and 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


155 


to flatter it corruptly, is indubitable. In that, his crimi- 
nality, as it is connected with the affairs of the house, 
chiefly consists.” 

“ One other word before you leave me, dear sir,” said 
Harriet. “ There is no danger in all this ? ” 

“ How danger ? ” he returned, with a little hesitation. 

“ To the credit of the house ? ” 

“ I cannot help answering you plainly, and trusting 
you completely,” said Mr. Morfin, after a moment’s 
survey of her face. 

“ You may. Indeed you may ! ” 
w I am sure I may. Danger to the house’s credit ? 
No ; none. There may be difficulty, greater or less dif- 
ficulty, but no danger, unless — unless, indeed — the 
head of the house, unable to bring his mind to the re- 
duction of its enterprises, and positively refusing to 
believe that it is, or can be, in any position but the 
position in which he has always represented it to him- 
self, should urge it beyond its strength. Then it would 
totter.” 

“ But there is no apprehension of that ? ” said Harriet. 
u There shall be no half-confidence,” he replied, shak- 
ing her hand, “ between us. Mr. Dombey is unapproach- 
able by any one, and his state of mind is haughty, rash, 
unreasonable, and ungovernable, now. But he is dis- 
turbed and agitated now beyond all common bounds, and 
it may pass. You now know all, both worst and best. 
No more to-night, and good-night ! ” 

With that he kissed her hand, and, passing out at the 
door where her brother stood awaiting his coming, put 
him cheerfully aside when he essayed to speak ; told him 
that, as they would see each other soon and often, he 
might speak at another time, if he would, but there was 


156 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


no leisure for it then ; and went away at a round pace, 
in order that no word of gratitude might follow him. 

The brother and sister sat conversing by the fireside, 
until it was almost day ; made sleepless by this glimpse 
of the new world that opened before them, and feeling 
like two people shipwrecked long ago, upon a solitary 
coast, to whom a ship had come at last, when they were 
old in resignation, and had lost all thought of any other 
home. But another and different kind of disquietude 
kept them waking too. The darkness out of which this 
sight had broken on them gathered around ; and the 
ihadow of their guilty brother was in the house where 
iis foot had never trod. 

Nor was it to be driven out, nor did it fade before the 
gun. Next morning it was there ; at noon ; at night. 
Darkest and most distinct at night, as is now to be 
told. 

John Carker had gone out, in pursuance of a letter 
of appointment from their friend, and Harriet was left in 
the house alone. She had been alone some hours. A 
dull, grave evening, and a deepening twilight, were not 
favorable to the removal of the oppression on her spirits. 
The idea of this brother, long unseen and unknown, flitted 
about her in frightful shapes. He was dead, dying, call- 
ing to her, staring at her, frowning on her. The pictures 
in her mind were so obtrusive and exact that, as the twi- 
light deepened, she dreaded to raise her head and look 
at the dark corners of the room, lest his wraith, the off- 
spring of her excited imagination, should be waiting 
there, to startle her. Once she had such a fancy of his 
being in the next room, hiding — though she knew quite 
well what a distempered fancy it was, and had no belief 
vn it — that she forced herself to go there, for her own 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


157 


conviction. But in vain. The room resumed its shadowy 
terrors the moment she left it; and she had no more 
power to divest herself of these vague impressions of 
dread, than if they had been stone-giants, rooted in the 
solid earth. 

It was almost dark, and she was sitting near the win* 
dow, with her head upon her hand, looking down, when, 
sensible of a sudden increase in the gloom of the apart- 
ment, she raised her eyes and uttered an involuntary 
cry. Close to the glass, a pale scared face gazed in ; 
vacantly, for an instant, as searching for an object ; then 
the eyes rested on herself, and lighted up. 

“ Let me in ! Let me in ! I want to speak to you ! ” 
and the hand rattled on the glass. 

She recognized immediately the woman with the long 
dark dair, to whom she had given warmth, food, and 
shelter, one wet night. Naturally afraid of her, remem- 
bering her violent behavior, Harriet, retreating a little 
from the window, stood undecided and alarmed. 

“ Let me in ! Let me speak to you ! I am thankful 
— quiet — humble — anything you like. But let me 
speak to you.” 

The vehement manner of the entreaty, the earnest 
expression of the face, the trembling of the two hands 
that were raised imploringly, a certain dread and terror 
in the voice akin to her own condition at the moment, 
prevailed with Harriet. She hastened to the door and 
opened it. 

“ May I come in, or shall I speak here ? ” said the 
woman, catching at her hand. 

“ What is it that you want ? What is it that you have 
to say ? ” 

* Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never say 


158 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


it. I am tempted now to go away. There seem to be 
hands dragging me from the door. Let me come in, if 
you can trust me for this once!” 

Her energy again prevailed, and they passed into the 
firelight of the little kitchen, where she had before sat, 
and ate, and dried her clothes. 

“ Sit there,” said Alice, kneeling down beside her, 
“and look at me. You remember me?” 

“I do.” 

“You remember what I told you I had been, and 
where I came from, ragged and lame, with the fierce 
wind and weather beating on my head ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ You know how I came back that night, and threw 
your money in the dirt, and cursed you and your race 
Now, see me here, upon my knees. Am I less earnest 
now, than I was then ? ” 

“ If what you ask,” said Harriet, gently, “ is forgive* 
ness ” - — 

“ But it’s not ! ” returned the other, with a proud, 
fierce look. “ What I ask is to be believed. Now you 
shall judge if I am worthy of belief, both as I was, and 
as I am.” 

Still upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the fire, 
and the fire shining on her ruined beauty and her wild 
black hair, one long tress of which she pulled over hei 
shoulder, and wound about her hand, and thoughtfully 
bit and tore while speaking, she went on : 

“When I was young and pretty, and this,” plucking 
contemptuously at the hair she held, “ was only handled 
delicately, and couldn’t be admired enough, my mother, 
who had not been very mindful of me as a child, found 
out my merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me 


DOMBEY Am) SON. 


159 


She was covetous and poor, and thought to make a sort 
of property of me. No great lady ever thought that of 
a daughter yet, I’m sure, or acted as if she did — it’s 
never done, we all know — and that shows that the only 
instances of mothers bringing up their daughters wrong 
and evil coming of it, are among such miserable folks as 
us.” 

Looking at the fire, as if she were forgetful, for the 
moment, of having any auditor, she continued in a 
dreamy way, as she wound the long tress of hair tight 
round and round her hand. 

“ What came of that, I needn’t say. Wretched mar- 
riages don’t come of such things, in our degree; only 
wretchedness and ruin. Wretchedness and ruin came 
on me — came on me.” 

Raising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon 
the fire, to Harriet’s face, she said — 

“ I am wasting time, and there is none to spare ; yet 
if I hadn’t thought of all, I shouldn’t be here now. 
Wretchedness and ruin came on me, I say. I was made 
a short-lived toy, and flung aside more cruelly and care- 
lessly than even such things are. By whose hand do 
you think ? ” 

u Why do you ask me ? ” said Harriet. 

u Why do you tremble ? ” rejoined Alice, with an 
eager look. “His usage made a Devil of me. I sunk 
in wretchedness and ruin, lower and lower yet. I was 
concerned in a robbery — in every part of it but the 
gains — and was found out, and sent to be tried, without 
a friend, without a penny. Though I was but a girl, I 
would have gone to Death, sooner than ask him for a 
word, if a word of his could have saved me. I would ! 
To an}' death that could have been invented. But my 


160 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


mother, covetous always, sent to him in my name, told 
the true story of my case, and humbly prayed and peti- 
tioned for a small last gift — for not so many pounds a; 
I have fingers on this hand. Who was it do you think, 
who snapped his fingers at me in my misery, lying, as he 
believed, at his feet, and left me without even this poor 
sign of remembrance ; well satisfied that I should be sent 
abroad, beyond the reach of further trouble to him, and 
should die, and rot there ? Who was this, do, you 
think ? ” 

“ Why do you ask me ? ” repeated Harriet. 

“ Why do you tremble ? ” said Alice, laying her hand 
upon her arm, and looking in her face, “ but that the 
answer is on your lips ! It was your brother James.” 

Harriet trembled more and more, but did not avert 
her eyes from the eager look that rested on them. 

“ When I knew you were his sister — which was on 
that night — I came back, weary and lame, to spurn 
your gift. I felt that night as if I could have travelled, 
weary and lame, over the whole world, to stab him, if I 
could have found him in a lonely place with no one near. 
Do you believe that I was earnest in all that ? ” 

“ I do ! Good Heaven, why are you come again ? ” 

“ Since then,” said Alice, with the same grasp of her 
arm, and the same look in her face, “ I have seen him 1 
I have followed him with my eyes, in the broad day. 
If any spark of my resentment slumbered in my bosom, 
it sprung into a blaze when my eyes rested on him. 
You know he has wronged a proud man, and made him 
his deadly enemy. What if I had given information of 
him to that man ? ” 

“ Information ! ” repeated Harriet. 

“ What if I had found out one who knew your brother's 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


161 


secret : who knew the manner of his flight ; who knew 
where he and the companion of his flight were gone? 
What if I had made him utter all his knowledge, word 
by word, before this enemy, concealed to hear it ? What 
if I had sat by at the time, looking into this enemy’s 
face, and seeing it change till it was scarcely human ? 
What if I had seen him rush away, mad, in pursuit ? 
What if I knew, now, that he was on his road, more 
fiend than man, and must, in so many hours, come up 
with him?” 

“ Remove your hand ! ” said Harriet, recoiling. “ Go 
away ! Your touch is dreadful to me ! ” 

“ I have done this,” pursued the other, with her eager 
look, regardless of the interruption. “ Do I speak and 
look as if I really had ? Do you believe what I am 
saying ? ” 

“ I fear I must. Let my arm go ! ” 

“ Not yet. A moment more. You can think what 
my revengeful purpose must have been, to last so long, 
and urge me to do this?” 

“ Dreadful ! ” said Harriet. 

“ Then when you see me now,” said Alice, hoarsely, 
u here again, kneeling quietly on the ground, with my 
touch upon your arm, with my eyes upon your face, you 
may believe that there is no common earnestness in what 
I say, and that no common struggle has been battling in 
my breast. I am ashamed to speak the words, but I 
relent. I despise myself ; I have fought with myself all 
day, and all last night ; but I relent towards him without 
reason, and wish to repair what I have done, if it is pos- 
sible. I wouldn’t have them come together while his pur 
suer is so blind, and headlong. If you had seen him as 
he went out last night, you would know the danger better.” 

VOL. iv. 11 


162 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ How shall it be prevented ! What can I do ! ” cried 
Harriet. 

“ All night long,” pursued the other, hurriedly, “ I had 
dreams of him — and yet I didn’t sleep — in his blood. 
All day, I have had him near me.” 

“ What can I do ! ” said Harriet, shuddering at these 
words. 

“ If there is any one who’ll write, or send, or go to 
him, let them lose no time. He is at Dijon. Do you 
know the name, and where it is ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” 

“Warn him that the man he has made his enemy is 
in a frenzy, and that he doesn’t know him if he makes 
light of his approach. Tell him that he is on the road 
— I know he is ! — and hurrying on. Urge him to get 
away while there is time — if there is time — and not 
to meet him yet. A month or so will make years of 
difference. Let them not encounter through me. Any- 
where but there ! Any time but now ! Let his foe 
follow him, and find him for himself, but not through 
me ! There is enough upon my head without.” 

The fire ceased to be reflected in her jet black hair, 
uplifted face, and eager eyes ; her hand was gone from 
Harriet’s arm; and the place where she had been, was 
empty. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


163 


CHAPTER LIV. 

THE FUGITIVES. 

The time, an hour short of midnight; the place, a 
French Apartment, comprising some half-dozen rooms 
■ — a dull cold hall or corridor, a dining-room, a drawing- 
room, a bedchamber, and an inner drawing-room, or 
boudoir, smaller and more retired than the rest. All 
these shut in by one large pair of doors on the main 
staircase, but each room provided with two or three 
pairs of doors of its own, establishing several means of 
communication with the remaining portion of the apart- 
ment, or with certain small passages within the wall, 
leading, as is not unusual in such houses, to some back 
stairs with an obscure outlet below. The whole situated 
on the first floor of so large an hotel, that it did not 
absorb one entire row of windows upon one side of the 
square court-yard in the centre, upon which the whole 
four sides of the mansion looked. 

An air of splendor, sufficiently faded to be melan- 
choly, and sufficiently dazzling to clog and embarrass the 
details of life with a show of state, reigned in these 
rooms. The walls and ceilings were gilded and painted ; 
the floors were waxed and polished ; crimson drapery 
hung in festoons from window, door, and mirror ; and 
candelabra, gnarled and intertwisted like the branches 
of trees, or horns of animals, stuck out from the panels 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ir>i 

of the wall. But in the daytime, when the lattice- 
blinds (now closely shut) were opened, and the light let 
in, traces were discernible among this finery, of wear 
and tear and dust, of sun and damp and smoke, and 
lengthened intervals of want of use and habitation, when 
such shows and toys of life seem sensitive like life, and 
waste as men shut up in prison do. Even night, and 
clusters of burning candles, could not wholly efface 
them, though the general glitter threw them in the 
shade. 

The glitter of bright tapers, and their reflection in 
looking-glasses, scraps of gilding, and gay colors, were 
confined, on this night, to one room — that smaller room 
within the rest, just now enumerated. Seen from the 
hall, where a lamp was feebly burning, through the dark 
perspective of open doors, it looked as shining and pre- 
cious as a gem. In the heart of its radiance sat a beauti- 
ful woman — Edith. 

She was alone. The same defiant, scornful woman 
still. The cheek a little worn, the eye a little larger in 
appearance, and more lustrous, but the haughty bear- 
ing just the same. No shame upon her brow ; no late 
repentance bending her disdainful neck. Imperious and 
stately yet, and yet regardless of herself and of all 
else, she sat with her dark eyes cast down, waiting for 
some one. 

No book, no work, no occupation of any kind but her 
own thoughts, beguiled the tardy time. Some purpose, 
strong enough to fill up any pause, possessed her. With 
her lips pressed together, and quivering if for a mo- 
ment she released them from her control ; with her 
nostril inflated ; her hands clasped in one another ; and 
her purpose swelling in her breast ; she sat, and waited. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


1 05 


At the sound of a key in the outer door, and a foot- 
step in the hall, she started up, and cried “ Who’s that ?’ f 
The answer was in French, and two men came in with 
jingling trays, to make preparation for supper. 

“ Who had bade them do so ? ” she asked. 

“ Monsieur had commanded it, when it was his pleas- 
ure to take the apartment. Monsieur had said, when 
he stayed there for an hour, en route , and left the let- 
ter for Madame — Madame had received it surely ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ A thousand pardons ! The sudden apprehension 
that it might have been forgotten had struck him ; ” a 
bald man, with a large beard from a neighboring re- 
staurant : “ with despair ! Monsieur had said that sup- 
per was to be ready at that hour : also that he had 
forewarned Madame of the commands he had given, in 
his letter. Monsieur had done the Golden Head the 
honor to request that the supper should be choice and 
delicate. Monsieur would find that his confidence in 
the Golden Head was not misplaced.” 

Edith said no more, but looked on thoughtfully while 
they prepared the table for two persons, and set the 
wine upon it. She arose before they had finished, and 
taking a lamp, passed into the bedchamber, and into the 
drawing-room, where she hurriedly but narrowly ex-* 
amined all the doors ; particularly one in the former 
room that opened on the passage in the wall. From 
this she took the key, and put it on the outer side. 
She then came back. 

The men — the second of whom was a dark, bilious 
subject, in a jacket, close shaved, and with a black head 
of hair close cropped — had completed their prepara- 
tion of the tabl and were standing looking at it. He 


166 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


who had spoken before, inquired whether Madame 
thought it would be long before Monsieur arrived? 

“ She couldn’t say. It was all one.” 

“ Pardon ! There was the supper ! It should be 
eaten on the instant. Monsieur (who spoke French 
like an Angel — or a Frenchman — it w T as all the same) 
had spoken with great emphasis of his punctuality. But 
the English nation had so grand a genius for punctuality. 
Ah ! what noise ! Great Heaven, here was Monsieur. 
Behold him ! ” 

In effect, Monsieur, admitted by the other of the two, 
came, with his gleaming teeth, through the dark rooms, 
like a mouth ; and arriving in that sanctuary of light 
and color, a figure at full length, embraced Madame, 
and addressed her in the French tongue as his charm- 
ing wife. 

“ My God ! Madame is going to faint. Madame is 
overcome with joy ! ” The bald man with the beard 
observed it, and cried out. 

Madame had only shrunk and shivered. Before the 
words were spoken, she was standing with her hand 
upon the velvet back of a great chair ; her figure drawn 
up to its full height, and her face immovable. 

“ Francis has flown over to the Golden Head for 
supper. He flies on these occasions like an angel or 
a bird. The baggage of Monsieur is in his room. All 
is arranged. The supper will be here this moment.” 
These facts the bald man notified with bows and smiles, 
and presently the supper came. 

The hot dishes were on a chafing-dish ; the cold al- 
ready set forth, with the change of service on a side- 
board. Monsieur was satisfied with this arrangement. 
The supper-table being small, it pleased him very well. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


167 


Let them set the chafing-dish upon the floor, and go. 
He would remove the dishes with his own hands. 

“ Pardon ! ” said the bald man, politely. “ It was im- 
possible ! ” 

Monsieur was of another opinion. He required no 
further attendance that night. 

“ But madame ” the bald man hinted. 

a Madame,” replied Monsieur, “ had her own maid, 
ft was enough.” 

“ A million pardons ! No ! madame had no maid ! ” 

“ I came here alone,” said Edith. “ It was my choice 
to do so. I am well used to travelling ; I want no at- 
tendance. They need send nobody to me.” 

Monsieur accordingly, persevering in his first proposed 
impossibility, proceeded to follow the two attendants to 
the outer door, and secure it after them for the night. 
The bald man turning round to bow, as he went out, 
observed # that madame still stood with her hand upon 
the velvet back of the great chair, and that her face 
was quite regardless of him, though she was looking 
straight before her. 

As the sound of CarkePs fastening the door resounded 
through the intermediate rooms, and seemed to come 
hushed and stifled into that last distant one, the sound of 
the Cathedral clock striking twelve mingled with it, in 
Edith’s ears. She heard him pause, as if he heard it 
too and listened ; and then come back towards her, lay- 
ing a long train of footsteps through the silence, and 
shutting all the doors behind him as he came along. 
Her hand, for a moment, left the velvet chair to bring a 
knife within her reach upon the table ; then she stood as 
she had stood before. 

“ How strange to come here by yourself, my love,” 
he said as he entered. 


168 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


u What ! ” she returned. 

Her tone was so harsh ; the quick turn of her head so 
fierce ; her attitude so repellant ; and her form so black ; 
that he stood, with the lamp in his hand, looking at her, 
as if she had struck him motionless. 

“ 1 say,” he at length repeated, putting down the lamp, 
and smiling his most courtly smile, “ how strange to come 
here alone ! It was unnecessary caution surely, and might 
have defeated itself. You were to have engaged an 
attendant at Havre or Rouen, and have had abundance 
of time for the purpose, though you had been the most 
capricious and difficult (as you are the most beautiful, 
my love) of women.” 

Her eyes gleamed strangely on him, but she stood 
with her hand resting on the chair, and said not a 
word. 

“ I have never,” resumed Carker, “ seen you look so 
handsome, as you do to-night*. Even the picture I have 
carried in my mind during this cruel probation, and 
which I have contemplated night and day, is exceeded 
by the reality.” 

Not a word. Not a look. Her eyes completely hid- 
den by their drooping lashes, but her head held up. 

“ Hard, unrelenting terms they were ! ” said Carker, 
with a smile, “ but they are all fulfilled and passed, and 
make the present more delicious and more safe. Sicily 
shall be the place of our retreat. In the idlest and 
easiest part of the world, my soul, we’ll both seek com- 
pensation for old slavery.” 

He was coming gayly towards her, when, in an instant, 
she caught the knife up from the table, and started one 
pace back. 

“ Stand still ! ” she said, “ or I shall murder you ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


169 


The sudden change in her, the towering fury and 
intense abhorrence sparkling in her eyes and lighting 
up her brow, made him stop as if a fire had stopped 
him. 

“ Stand still ! ” she said, u come no nearer me, upon 
your life ! ” 

They both stood looking at each other. Rage and 
astonishment were in his face, but he controlled them, 
and said lightly, 

“ Come, come ! Tush, we are alone, and out of every- 
body’s sight and hearing. Do you think to frighteu me 
with these tricks of virtue ? ” 

“ Do you think to frighten me” she answered fiercely, 
“ from any purpose that I have, and any course I am 
resolved upon, by reminding me of the solitude of this 
place, and there being no help near ? Me, who am here 
alone, designedly ? If I feared you, should I not have 
avoided you ? If I feared you, should I be here, in the 
dead of night, telling you to your face what I am going 
to tell ? ” 

“ And what is that,” he said, “ you handsome shrew ? 
Handsomer so, than any other woman in her best 
humor ? ” 

“ I tell you nothing,” she returned, “ until you go back 
to that chair — except this, once again — Don’t come 
near me ! Not a step nearer. I tell you, if you do, 
as Heaven sees us, I shall murder you ! ” 

“ Do you mistake me for your husband ? ” he re- 
torted, with a grin. 

Disdaining to reply, she stretched her arm out, point- 
ing to the chair. He bit his lip, frowned, laughed, and 
Sat down in it, with a baffled, irresolute, impatient air 
he was unable to conceal ; and biting his nail ner- 


170 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


vously, and looking at her sideways, with bitter dis- 
comfiture, even while he feigned to be amused by her 
caprice. 

She put the knife down upon the table, and touching 
her bosom with her hand, said: 

“ I have something, lying here that is no love trinket ; 
and sooner than endure your touch once more, I would 
use it on you — and you know it, while I speak — with 
less reluctance than I would on any other creeping thing 
that lives.” 

He affected to laugh jestingly, and entreated her to 
act her play out quickly, for the supper was growing 
cold. But the secret look with which he regarded her, 
was more sullen and lowering, and he struck his foot 
once upon the floor with a muttered oath. 

“ How many times,” said Edith, bending her darkest 
glance upon him, “ has your bold knavery assailed me 
with outrage and insult ? How many times in your 
smooth manner, and mocking words and looks, have 1 
been twitted with my courtship and my marriage ? How 
many times have you laid bare my wound of love for 
that sweet, injured girl, and lacerated it ? How often 
have you fanned the fire on which, for two years, I have 
writhed ; and tempted me to take a desperate revenge, 
when it has most tortured me ? ” 

“ I have no doubt, ma’am,” he replied, “ that you 
have kept a good account, and that it’s pretty accurate. 
Come, Edith. To your husband, poor wretch, this was 
well enough ” — 

“ Why, if,” she said, surveying him with a haughty 
contempt and disgust, that he shrunk under, let him 
brave it as he would, “ if all my other reasons for de- 
spising him could have been blown away like feathers, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


171 


his having you for his counsellor and favorite, would 
have almost been enough to hold their place.” 

“ Is that a reason why you have run away " with 
me ? ” he asked her, tauntingly. 

“ Yes, and why we are face to face for the last 
time. Wretch ! We meet to-night, and part to-night. 
For not one moment after I have ceased to speak, will 
I stay here ! ” 

He turned upon her with his ugliest look, and griped 
the table with his hand ; but neither rose, nor other- 
wise answered or threatened her. 

“ I am a woman,” she said, confronting him steadfastly, 
“ who from her very childhood has been shamed and 
steeled. 1 have been offered and rejected, put up and 
appraised, until my very soul has sickened. I have not 
had an accomplishment or grace that might have been a 
resource to me, but it has been paraded, and vended to 
enhance my value, as if the common crier had called it 
through the streets. My poor, proud friends, have looked 
on and approved ; and every tie between us has been 
deadened in my breast. There is not one of them for 
whom I care, as I could care for a pet-dog. I stand 
alone in the world, remembering well what a hollow 
world it has been to me, and what a hollow part of it I 
have been myself. You know this, and you know that 
my fame with it is worthless to me.” 

“ Yes ; I imagined that,” he said. 

“ And calculated on it,” she rejoined, “ and so pur- 
sued me. Grown too indifferent for any opposition but 
indifference, to the daily working of the hands that had 
moulded me to this ; and knowing that my marriage 
would at least prevent their hawking of me up and 
down ; I suffered myself to be sold as infamously as 


172 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


any woman with a halter round her neck is sold in any 
market-place. You know that.” 

“ Yes,” he said, showing all his teeth. “ I know that.” 

“ And calculated on it,” she rejoined once more, u and 
so pursued me. From my marriage-day, I found myself 
exposed to such new shame — to such solicitation and 
pursuit (expressed as clearly as if it had been written in 
the coarsest words, and thrust into my hand at every 
turn) from one mean villain, that I felt as if I had never 
known humiliation till that time. This shame my hus- 
band fixed upon me ; hemmed me round with, himself ; 
steeped me in, with his own hands, and of his own act, 
repeated hundreds of times. And thus — forced by the 
two from every point of rest I had — forced by the two 
to yield up the last retreat of love and gentleness within 
me, or to be a new misfortune on its innocent object — 
driven from each to each, and beset by one when I 
escaped the other — my anger rose almost to distraction 
against both. I do not know against which it rose higher 
— the master or the man ! ” 

He watched her closely, as she stood before him in the 
very triumph of her indignant beauty. She was resolute, 
he saw ; undauntable ; with no more fear of him than of 
a worm. 

“ What should I say of honor or of chastity to you ! ” 
6he went on. “ What meaning would it have to you ; 
what meaning would it have from me ! But if I tell you 
that the lightest touch of your hand makes my blood cold 
with antipathy ; that from the hour when I first saw and 
hated you, to now, when my instinctive repugnance is 
enhanced by every minute’s knowledge of you I have 
since had, you have been a loathsome creature to me 
which has not its like on earth ; how then ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


173 


He answered, with a faint laugh, “ Ay ! . How then, 
my queen ? ” 

“ On that night, when, emboldened by the scene you 
had assisted at, you dared come to my room and speak 
to me,” she said, “ what passed ? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and laughed again. 

“ What passed ? ” she said. 

“ Your memory is so distinct,” he returned, “ that I 
have no doubt you can recall it.” 

“ I can,” she said. “ Hear it ! Proposing then, this 
flight — not this flight, but the flight you thought it — 
you told me that in the having given you that meeting, 
and leaving you to be discovered there, if you so thought 
fit ; and in the having suffered you to be alone with me 
many times before, — and having made the opportuni- 
ties, you said, — and in the having openly avowed to 
you that I had no feeling for my husband but aversion, 
and no care for myself — I was lost ; I had given you 
the power to traduce my name ; and I lived, in virtuous 
reputation, at the pleasure of your breath.” 

“ All stratagems in love ” — he interrupted, smiling. 
“ The old adage ” — 

“ On that night,” said Edith, “ and then the struggle 
that I long had had with something that was not respect 
for my good fame — that was I know not what — per- 
haps the clinging to that last retreat — was ended. On 
that night, and then, I turned from everything but 
passion and resentment. I struck a blow that laid 
your lofty master in the dust, and set you there, be- 
fore me, looking at me now, and knowing what I 
mean.” 

He sprung up from his chair with a great oath. She 
put her hand into her bosom, and nr t a finger trembled, 


174 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


not a hair upon her head was stirred. He stood still : 
she too : the table and chair between them. 

“ When I forget that this man put his lips to mine 
that night, and held me in his arms as he has done again 
to-night/’ said Edith, pointing at him ; “ when I forget 
the taint of his kiss upon my cheek — the cheek that Flor- 
ence would have laid her guiltless face against — when 
I forget, my meeting with her, while that taint was hot 
upon me, and in what a flood the knowledge rushed 
upon me when I saw her, that in releasing her from the 
persecution I had caused her by my love, I brought a 
shame and degradation on her name through mine, 
and in all time to come should be the solitary figure 
representing in her mind her first avoidance of a guilty 
creature — then, Husband, from whom I stand divorced 
henceforth, I will forget these last two years, and undo 
what I have done, and undeceive you ! ” 

Her flashing eyes, uplifted for a moment, lighted again 
on Carker, and she held some letters out in her left hand. 

“ See these ! ” she said, contemptuously. “ You have 
addressed these to me in the false name you go by ; one 
here, some elsewhere on my road. The seals are un- 
broken. Take them back ! ” 

She crunched them in her hand, and tossed them to 
his feet. And as she looked upon him now, a smile was 
on her face. 

“We meet and part to-night,” she said. “You have 
fallen on Sicilian days and sensual rest, too soon. You 
might have cajoled, and fawned, and played your trait- 
or’s part, a little longer, and grown richer. You pur- 
chase your voluptuous retirement dear!” 

“ Edith ! ” he retorted, menacing her with his hand. 
“ Sit down ! Have done with this ! What devil pos- 
sesses you ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


175 


“ Theii name is Legion,” she replied, uprearing her 
proud form as if she would have crushed him ; “ you and 
your master have raised them in a fruitful house, and 
they shall tear you both. False to him, false to his in- 
nocent child, false every way and everywhere, go forth 
and boast of me, and gnash your teeth foi once to know 
that you are lying ! ” 

He stood before her, muttering and menacing, and 
scowling round as if for something that would help him 
to conquer her ; but with the same indomitable spirit she 
opposed him, without faltering. 

“ In every vaunt you make,” she said, “ I have my 
triumph. I single out in you the meanest man I know, 
the parasite and tool of the proud tyrant, that his wound 
may go the deeper and may rankle more. Boast, and 
revenge me on him ! You know how you came here to- 
night ; you know how you stand cowering there ; you 
see yourself in colors quite as despicable, if not as 
odious, as those in which I see you. Boast then, and 
revenge me on yourself.” 

The foam was on his lips ; the wet stood on his fore- 
head. If she would have faltered once, for only one 
half moment, he would have pinioned her ; but she was 
as firm as rock, and her searching eyes never left him. 

“We don’t part so,” he said. “ Do you think I am 
drivelling, to let you go in your mad temper ? ” 

“ Do you think,” she answered, “ that I am to be 
stayed ? ” 

“ I’ll try, my dear,” he said with a ferocious gesture 
of his head. 

“ God’s mercy on you, if you try by coming near 
me ! ” she replied. 

“ And what,” he said, “ if there are none of these same 


176 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


boasts and vaunts on my part ? what if I were to turn 
too ? Come ! ” and his teeth fairly shone again. “ We 
must make a treaty of this, or I may take some unex- 
pected course. Sit down, sit down ! ” 

“ Too late ! ” she cried, with eyes that seemed to 
sparkle fire. “ I have thrown my fame and good name 
to the winds ! I have resolved to bear the shame that 
will attach to me — resolved to know that it attaches 
falsely — that you know it too — and that he does not, 
never can, and never shall. I’ll die and make no sign. 
For this I am here alone with you, at the dead of night. 
For this, I have met you here, in a false name, as your 
wife. For this, I have been seen here by those men, 
and left here. Nothing can save you now.” 

He would have sold his soul to root her, in her beauty, 
to the floor, and make her arms drop at her sides, and 
have her at his mercy. But he could not look at her, 
and not be afraid of her. He saw a strength within her 
that was resistless. He saw that she was desperate, and 
that her unquenchable hatred of him would stop at noth- 
ing. His eyes followed the hand that was put with such 
rugged uncongenial purpose into her white bosom, and 
he thought that if it struck at him, and failed, it would 
strike there, just as soon. 

He did not venture, therefore, to advance towards 
her ; but the door by which he had entered was behind 
him, and he stepped back to lock it. 

“Lastly, take my warning I look to yourself!” she 
said, and smiled again. “ You have been betrayed, as 
all betrayers are. It has been made known that you 
are in this place, or were to be, or have been. If I live, 
l saw my husband in a carriage in the street to-night ! ” 

“ Strumpet, it’s false! ” cried Carker. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


177 


At the moment, the bell rang loudly in the hall. He 
turned white, as she held her hand up like an enchant- 
ress, at whose invocation the sound had come. 

“ Hark ! do you hear it ? ” 

He set his back against the door ; for he saw a change 
in her, and fancied she was coming on to pass him. But, 
in a moment, she was gone through the opposite doors 
communicating with the bedchamber, and they shut upon 
her. 

Once turned, once changed in her inflexible unyielding 
look, he felt that he could cope with her. He thought a 
sudden terror, occasioned by this night-alarm, had sub- 
dued her ; not the less readily, for her overwrought con- 
dition. Throwing open the doors, he followed, almost 
instantly. 

Bnt the room was dark ; and as she made no answer 
to his call, he was fain to go back for the lamp. He 
held it up, and looked round everywhere, expecting to 
see her crouching in some corner ; but the room was 
empty. So, into the drawing-room and dining-room he 
went, in succession, with the uncertain steps of a man in 
a strange place ; looking fearfully about, and prying be- 
hind screens and couches ; but she was not there. v . No, 
nor in the hall, which was so bare that he could see that, 
at a glance. 

All this time, the ringing at the bell was constantly 
renewed, and those without were beating at the door. 
He put his lamp down at a distance, and going near it, 
listened. There were several voices talking together ; 
at least two of them in English ; and though the door 
was thick, and there was great confusion, he knew one 
of these too well to doubt whose voice it was. 

He took up his lamp again, and came back quickly 
VOL. iv. 12 


178 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


through all the rooms, stopping as he quitted each, and 
looking round for her, with the light raised above his 
head. He was standing thus in the bedchamber, when 
the door, leading to the little passage in the wall, caught 
his eye. He went to it, and found it fastened on the 
other side ; but she had dropped a veil in going through, 
and shut it in the door. 

All this time the people on the stairs were ringing at 
the bell, and knocking with their hands and feet. 

He was not a coward : but these sounds ; what had 
gone before ; the strangeness of the place, which had 
confused him, even in his return from the hall ; the 
frustration of his schemes (for, strange to say, he would 
have been much bolder, if they had succeeded) ; the un- 
seasonable time ; the recollection of having no one near 
to whom he could appeal for any friendly office ; above 
all, the sudden sense, which made even his heart beat 
like lead, that the man whose confidence he had out- 
raged, and whom he had so treacherously deceived, was 
there to recognize and challenge him with his mask 
plucked off his face ; struck a panic through him. He 
tried the door in which the veil was shut, but couldn’t 
force it. He opened one of the windows, and looked 
down through the lattice of the blind, into the court-yard ; 
but it was a high leap, and the stones were pitiless. 

The ringing and knocking still continuing — his panic 
too — he went back to the door in the bedchamber, and 
with some new efforts, each more stubborn than the last, 
wrenched it open. Seeing the little staircase not far off, 
and feeling the night-air coming up, he stole back for his 
hat and coat, made the door as secure after him as he 
could, crept down lamp in hand, extinguished it on see- 
ing the street, and having put it in a corner, went out 
where the stars were shining. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


179 


CHAPTER LV. 

ROB THE GRINDER LOSES HIS PLACE. 

The porter at the iron gate which shut the court-yard 
from tiie street, had left the little wicket of his house 
open, and was gone away ; no doubt to mingle in the 
distant noise at the door on the staircase. Lifting the 
latch softly, Carker crept out, and shutting the jangling 
gate after him with as little noise as possible, hurried off. 

In the fever of his mortification and unavailing rage, 
the panic that had seized upon him mastered him com- 
pletely. It rose to such a height that he would have 
blindly encountered almost any risk, rather than meet 
the rrtan of whom, two hours ago, he had been utterly 
regardless. His fierce arrival, which he had never ex- 
pected ; the sound of his voice; their having been so 
near a meeting face to face ; he would have braved out 
this, after the first momentary shock of alarm, and would 
have put as bold a front upon his guilt as any villain. 
But the springing of his mine upon himself, seemed to 
have rent and shivered all his hardihood and self-reli- 
ance, Spurned like any reptile ; entrapped and mocked ; 
turned upon, and trodden down by the proud woman 
whose mind he had slowly poisoned, as he thought, until 
she had sunk into the mere creature of his pleasure; 
undeceived in his deceit, and with his fox’s hide stripped 
aff, he sneaked away, abashed, degraded, and afraid. 


180 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Some other terror came upon him quite removed from 
this of being pursued, suddenly like an electric shock, 
as he was creeping through the streets. Some visionary 
terror, unintelligible and inexplicable, associated with a 
trembling of the ground, — a rush and sweep of some- 
thing through the air, like Death upon the wing. He 
shrunk, as if to let the thing go by. It was not gone, it 
never had been there, yet what a startling horror it had 
left behind. 

He raised his wicked face, so full of trouble, to the 
night sky where the stars, so full of peace, were shining 
on him as they had been when he first stole out into the 
air; and stopped to think what he should do. The 
dread of being hunted in a strange remote place, where 
the laws might not protect him — the novelty of the 
feeling that it was strange and remote, originating in his 
being left alone so suddenly amid the ruins of his plans 
— his greater dread of seeking refuge now, in Italy or 
in Sicily, where men might be hired to assassinate him, 
he thought, at any dark street corner — the waywardness 
of guilt and fear — perhaps some sympathy of action 
with the turning back of all his schemes — impelled him 
to turn back too, and go to England. 

“ I am safer there, in any case. If I should not de- 
cide,” he thought, “ to give this fool a meeting, I am less 
likely to be traced there, than abroad here, now. And 
if I should (this cursed fit being over), at least I shall 
not be alone, without a soul 'to speak to, or advise with, 
or stand by me. I shall not be run in upon and worried 
like a rat. 

He muttered Edith’s name, and clinched his hand. 
As he crept along, in the shadow of the massive build- 
ings, he set his teeth, and muttered dreadful impreca- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


181 


tions on her head, and looked from side to side, as if in 
search of her. Thus, he stole on to the gate of an inn- 
yard. The people were abed ; but his ringing at the 
bell soon produced a man with a lantern, in company 
with whom he was presently in a dim coach-house, bar- 
gaining for the hire of an old phaeton, to Paris. 

The bargain was a short one ; and the horses were 
soon sent for. Leaving word that the carriage was to fol- 
low him when they came, he stole away, again beyond the 
town, past the old ramparts, out on the open road, which 
seemed to glide away along the dark plain, like a stream ! 

Whither did it flow ? What was the end of it ? As 
he paused, with some such suggestion within him, look- 
ing over the gloomy flat where the slender trees marked 
out the way, again that flight of Death came rushing up, 
again went on, impetuous and resistless, again was noth- 
ing but a horror in his mind, dark as the scene and un- 
defined as its remotest verge. 

There was no wind ; there was no passing shadow on 
the deep shade of the night ; there was no noise. The 
city lay behind him, lighted here and there, and starry 
worlds were hidden by the masonry of spire and roof 
that hardly made out any shapes against the sky. Dark 
and lonely distance lay around him everywhere, and the 
clocks were faintly striking two. 

He went forward for what appeared a long time, and 
a long way ; often stopping to listen. At last the ring- 
ing of horses’ bells greeted his anxious ears. Now 
softer, and now louder, now inaudible, now ringing very 
slowly over bad ground, now brisk and merry, it came 
on ; until with a loud shouting and lashing, a shadowy 
postilion muffled to the eyes, checked his four struggling 
horses at his side. 


182 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Who goes there ! Monsieur ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Monsieur has walked a long way in the dark mid- 
night.” 

“No matter. Every one to his taste. Were there 
any other horses ordered at the post-house ? ” 

“ A thousand devils ! — and pardon ! other horses ? at 
this hour ? No.” 

“ Listen, my friend. I am much hurried. Let us see 
how fast we can travel ! The faster the more money 
there will be to drink. Off we go then ! Quick ! ” 

“ Halloa ! whoop ! Halloa ! Hi 1 ” Away, at a gal- 
lop, over the black landscape, scattering the dust and 
dirt like spray ! 

The clatter and commotion echoed to the hurry and 
discordance of the fugitive’s ideas. Nothing clear with- 
out and nothing clear within. Objects flitting past, 
merging into one another, dimly descried, confusedly 
lost sight of, gone ! Beyond the changing scraps of 
fence and cottage immediately upon the road, a lowering 
waste. Beyond the shifting images that rose up in his 
mind and vanished as they showed themselves, a black 
expanse of dread and rage and baffled villany. Occa- 
sionally, a sigh of mountain air came from the distant 
Jura, fading along the plain. Sometimes that rush 
which was so furious and horrible, again came sweeping 
through his fancy, passed away, and left a chill upon his 
blood. 

The lamps, gleaming on the medley of horses’ heads, 
jumbled with the shadowy driver, and the fluttering of 
his cloak, made a thousand indistinct shapes, answering 
to his thoughts. Shadows of familiar people, stooping at 
their desks and books, in their remembered attitudes ; 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


183 


strange apparitions of the man whom he was flying 
from, or of Edith ; repetitions in the ringing bells and 
rolling wheels, of words that had been spoken ; jpnfu- 
sions of time and place, making last night a montn ago, 
a month ago last night — home now distant beyond hope, 
now instantly accessible ; commotion, discord, hurry, 
darkness, and confusion in his mind, and all around him. 
— Halloa ! Hi ! away at a gallop over the black land- 
scape ; dust and dirt flying like spray, the smoking horses 
snorting and plunging as if each of them were ridden by 
a demon, away in a frantic triumph on the dark road — 
whither ! 

Again the nameless shock comes speeding up, and as 
it passes, the bells ring in his ears “ whither ? ” The 
wheels roar in his ears “ whither ? ” All the noise and 
rattle shapes itself into that cry. The lights and shadows 
dance upon the horses’ heads like imps. No stopping 
now : no slackening ! On, on ! Away with him upon 
the dark road wildly ! 

He could not think to any purpose. He could not 
separate one subject of reflection from another, 'suffi- 
ciently to dwell upon it, by itself, for a minute at a time. 
The crash of his project for the gaining of a voluptu- 
ous compensation for past restraint ; the overthrow of 
his treachery to one who had been true and generous 
to him, but whose least proud word and look he had 
treasured up, at interest, for years — for false and subtle 
men will always secretly despise and dislike the object 
upon which they fawn, and always resent the payment 
and receipt of homage that they know to be worthless ; 
these were the themes uppermost in his mind. A lurk- 
ing rage against the woman who had sc entrapped him 
*nd avenged herself was always there ; crude and mis- 


184 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


shapen schemes of retaliation upon her, floated in his 
brain ; but nothing was distinct. A hurry and contra- 
diction pervaded all his thoughts. Even while he was 
so busy -with this fevered, ineffectual thinking, his one 
constant idea was, that he would postpone reflection until 
some indefinite time. 

Then, -the old days before the second marriage rose up 
in his remembrance. He thought how jealous he had 
been of the boy, how jealous he had been of the girl, 
how artfully he had kept intruders at a distance, and 
drawn a circle round his dupe that none but himself 
should cross ; and then he thought, had he done all this 
to be flying now, like a scared thief, from only the poor 
dupe ? 

He could have laid hands upon himself for his cow- 
ardice, but it was the very shadow of his defeat, and 
could not be separated from it. To have his confidence 
in his own knavery so shattered at a blow — to be with- 
in his own knowledge such a miserable tool — was like 
being paralyzed. With an impotent ferocity he raged 
at Edith, and hated Mr. Dombey and hated himself, but 
still he fled, and could do nothing else. 

Again and again he listened for the sound of wheels 
behind. Again and again his fancy heard it, coming 
on louder and louder. At last he was so persuaded of 
this, that he cried out, “ Stop ! ” preferring even the loss 
of ground to such uncertainty. 

The word soon brought carriage, horses, driver, all in 
a heap together, across the road. 

“ The devil ! ” cried the driver, looking over his shoul- 
der, “ What’s the matter ? ” 
u Hark ! What’s that ? ” 

“ What ? ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


185 


“ That noise.” 

“ Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand ! ” to a horse 
who shook his bells. “ What noise?” 

“ Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop ? 
There ! what’s that ? ” 

u Miscreant with a pig’s head, stand still ! ” to another 
horse, who bit another, who frightened the other two, 
who plunged and backed. “ There is nothing coming.” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ No, nothing but the day yonder.” 

“ You are right, I think. I hear nothing now, indeed. 
Go on ! ” 

The entangled equipage, half hidden in the reek- 
ing cloud from the horses, goes on slowly at first, for 
the driver, checked unnecessarily in his progress, sulkily 
takes out a pocket-knife, and puts a new lash to his 
whip. Then “ Hallo, whoop ! Hallo, hi ! ” Away once 
more, savagely. 

And now the stars faded, and the day glimmered, 
and standing in the carriage, looking back, he could dis- 
cern the track by which he had come, and see that there 
was no traveller within view, on all the heavy expanse. 
And soon it was broad day, and the sun began to shine 
on corn-fields and vineyards ; and solitary laborers, risen 
from little temporary huts by heaps of stones upon the 
road, were, here and there, at w r ork repairing the high- 
way, or eating bread. By and by there were peasants go- 
ing to their daily labor, or to market, or lounging at the 
doors of poor cottages, gazing idly at him as he passed. 
And then there was a post-yard, ankle-deep in mud, 
with steaming dunghills and vast out-houses half ruined ; 
and looking on this dainty prospect, an immense, old, 
shadeless, glaring, stone chateau, with half its windows 


186 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


blinded, and green damp crawling lazily over it, from 
the balustraded terrace to the taper tips of the extin- 
guishers upon the turrets. 

Gathered up moodily in a corner of the carriage, and 
only intent on going fast — except when he stood up, 
for a mile together, and looked back ; which he would 
do whenever there was a piece of open country — he 
went on, still postponing thought indefinitely, and still 
always tormented with thinking to no purpose. 

Shame, disappointment, and discomfiture gnawed at 
his heart ; a constant apprehension of being overtaken, 
or met — for he was groundlessly afraid even of travel- 
lers, who came towards him by the way he was go- 
ing — oppressed him heavily. The same intolerable 
awe and dread that had coine upon him, in the night, 
returned unweakened in the day. The monotonous ring- 
ing of the bells and tramping of the horses ; the monot- 
ony of his anxiety, and useless rage ; the monotonous 
wheel of fear, regret, and passion, he kept turning round 
and round ; made the journey like a vision, in which 
nothing was quite real but his own torment. 

It was a vision of long roads ; that stretched away to 
an horizon, always receding and never gained ; of ill- 
paved towns, up hill and down, where faces came to dark 
doors and ill-glazed windows, and where rows of mud- 
bespattered cows and oxen were tied up for sale in the 
Long narrow streets, butting and lowing, and receiving 
blows on their blunt heads from bludgeons that might 
have beaten them in ; of bridges, crosses, churches, post- 
yards, new horses being put in against their wills, and 
the horses of the last stage reeking, panting, and laying 
ilieir drooping heads together dolefully at stable-doors; 
of little cemeteries with black crosses settled sideways 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


187 


in the graves, and withered wreaths upon them drop* 
ping away ; again of long, long roads, dragging them- 
selves out, up hill and down, to the treacherous hori- 
zon. 

Of morning, noon, and sunset ; night, and the rising 
of an early moon. Of long roads temporarily left behind, 
and a rough pavement reached ; of battering and clat- 
tering over it, and looking up, among house-roofs, at a 
great church-tower ; of getting out and eating hastily, 
and drinking draughts of wine that had no cheering 
influence ; of coming forth afoot, among a host of beg- 
gars — blind men with quivering eyelids, led by old 
women holding candles to their faces ; idiot girls ; the 
lame, the epileptic, and the palsied — of passing through 
the clamor, and looking from his seat at the upturned 
countenances and outstretched hands, with a hurried 
dread of recognizing some pursuer pressing forward — of 
galloping away again, upon the lo.ng, long road, gathered 
up, dull and stunned, in his corner, or rising to see 
where the moon shone faintly on a patch of the same 
endless road miles away, or looking back to see who 
followed. 

Of never sleeping, but sometimes dozing with un- 
closed eyes, and springing up with a start, and a reply 
aloud to an imaginary voice. Of cursing himself for 
being there, for having fled, for having let her go, for 
not having confronted and defied him. Of having a 
deadly quarrel with the whole world, but chiefly with 
himself. Of blighting everything with his black mood 
as he was carried on and away. 

It was a fevered vision of things past and present 
all confounded together ; of his life and journey blended 
into one. Of being madly hurried somewhere, whither 


188 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


he must go. Of old scenes starting up among the 
novelties through which he travelled. Of musing and 
brooding over what was past and distant, and seeming 
to take no notice of the actual objects he encountered, 
but with a wearisome exhausting consciousness of being 
bewildered by them, and having their images all crowded 
in his hot brain after they were gone. 

A vision of change upon change, and still the same 
monotony of bells and wheels, and horses’ feet, and no 
rest. Of town and country, post-yards, horses, drivers, 
hill and valley, light and darkness, road and pavement, 
height and hollow, wet weather and dry, and still the 
same monotony of bells and wheels, and horses’ feet, and 
no rest. A vision of tending on at last, towards the 
distant capital, by busier roads, and sweeping round, by 
old cathedrals, and dashing through small towns and vil- 
lages, less thinly scattered on the road than formerly, 
and sitting shrouded in his corner, with his cloak up 
to his face, as people passing by looked at him. 

Of rolling on and on, always postponing thought, and 
always racked with thinking ; of being unable to reckon 
up the hours he had been upon the road, or to compre- 
hend the points of time and place in his journey. Of 
being parched and giddy, and half mad. Of pressing 
on, in spite of all, as if he could not stop, and coming 
into Paris, where the turbid river held its swift course 
undisturbed, between two brawling streams of life and 
motion. 

A troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, intermin- 
able streets ; of wine-shops, water-carriers, great crowds 
of people, soldiers, coaches, military drums, arcades. Of 
the monotony of bells and wheels and horses’ feet being 
at length lost in the universal din and uproar. Of the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


189 


gradual subsidence of that noise as he passed out in an- 
other carriage by a different barrier from that by which 
he had entered. Of the restoration, as he travelled on 
towards the sea-coast, of the monotony of bells and 
wheels, and horses’ feet, and no rest. 

Of sunset once again, and nightfall. Of long roads 
again, and dead of night, and feeble lights in windows by 
the roadside ; and still the old monotony of bells and 
wheels, and horses’ feet, and no rest. Of dawn, and 
daybreak, and the rising of the sun. Of toiling slowly 
up a hill, and feeling on its top the fresh sea-breeze ; and 
seeing the morning light upon the edges of the distant 
waves. Of coming down into a harbor when the tide 
was at its full, and seeing fishing-boats float in, and glad 
women and children waiting for them. Of nets and sea- 
men’s clothes spread out to dry upon the shore ; of busy 
sailors, and their voices high among ships’ masts and rig- 
ging ; of the buoyancy and brightness of the water, and 
the universal sparkling. 

Of receding from the coast, and looking back upon it 
from the deck when it was a haze upon the water, with 
here and there a little opening. of bright land where the 
Sun struck. Of the swell, and flash, and murmur of the 
calm sea. Of another gray line on the ocean, on the 
vessel’s track, fast growing clearer and higher. Of 
cliffs and buildings, and a windmill, and a church, becom- 
ing more and more visible upon it. Of steaming on at 
last into smooth water, and mooring to a pier -whence 
groups of people looked down, greeting friends on board. 
Of disembarking, passing among them quickly, shunning 
every one ; and of being at last again in England. 

He had thought, in his dream, of going down into a 
remote country-place he knew, and lying quiet there, 


190 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


while he secretly informed himself of what transpired, 
and determined how to act. Still in the same stunned 
condition, he remembered a certain station on the rail- 
way, where he would have to branch off to his place of 
destination, and where there was a quiet inn. Here he 
indistinctly resolved to tarry and rest. 

With this purpose he slunk into a railway carriage as 
quickly as he could, and lying there wrapped in hia 
cloak as if he were asleep, was soon borne far away 
from the sea, and deep into the inland green. Arrived 
at his destination he looked out, and surveyed it care- 
fully. He was not mistaken in his impression of the 
place. It was a retired spot, on the borders of a little 
wood. Only one house, newly-built or altered for the 
purpose, stood there, surrounded by its neat garden ; the 
small town that was nearest, was some miles away. 
Here he alighted then ; and going straight into the 
tavern, unobserved by any one, secured two rooms up- 
stairs communicating with each other and sufficiently 
retired. 

His object was to rest, and recover the command of 
himself, and the balance of his mind. Imbecile discom- 
fiture and rage — so that, as he walked about his room, 
he ground his teeth — had complete possession of him. 
His thoughts, not to be stopped or directed, still wan- 
dered where they would, and dragged him after them. 
He was stupefied, and he was wearied to death. 

But, as if there were a curse upon him that he should 
never rest again, his drowsy senses would not lose their 
consciousness. He had no more influence with them, in 
this regard, than if they had been another man’s. It 
was not that they forced him to take note of present 
Bounds and objects, but that they would not be diverted 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


191 


from the whole hurried vision of his journey, it was 
constantly before him all at once. She stood there, with 
her dark, disdainful eyes again upon him ; and he was 
riding on nevertheless, through town and country, light 
and darkness, wet weather and dry, over road and pave 
mont, hill and valley, height and hollow, jaded and scared 
by the monotony of bells, and wheels, and horses’ feet, 
and no rest. 

“ What day is this ? ” he asked of the waiter, who was 
making preparation for his dinner. 

“ Day, sir ? ” 

“ Is it Wednesday ? ” 

“ Wednesday, sir? No, sir. Thursday, sir.” 

“ I forgot. How goes the time ? My watch is un- 
wound.” 

“ Wants a few minutes of five o’clock, sir. Been trav- 
elling a long time, sir, perhaps ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ By rail, sir ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Very confusing, sir. Not much in the habit of trav- 
elling by rail myself, sir, but gentlemen frequently say 

so.” 

“ Do many gentlemen come here ? ” 

“ Pretty well, sir, in general. Nobody here at pres- 
ent. Rather slack just now, sir. Everything is slack, 
sir.” 

He made no answer ; but had risen into a sitting pos- 
ture on the sofa where he had been lying, and leaned 
forward with an arm on each knee, staring at the ground. 
He could not master his own attention for a minute to- 
gether. It rushed away where it would, but it never, 
for an instant, lost itself in sleep. 


192 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


He drank a quantity of wine after dinner, in vain, 
No such artificial means would bring sleep to his eyes. 
His thoughts, more incoherent, dragged him more un- 
mercifully after them — as if a wretch, condemned to 
such expiation, were drawn at the heels of wild horses. 
No oblivion, and no rest. 

How long he sat drinking and brooding, and being 
dragged in imagination hither and thither, no one could 
have told less correctly than he. But he knew that he 
had been sitting a long time by candle-light, when he 
started up and listened, in a sudden terror. 

For now, indeed, it was no fancy. The ground shook, 
the house rattled, the fierce impetuous rush was in the 
air ! He felt it come up, and go darting by ; and even , 
when he had hurried to the window, and saw what it 
was, he stood, shrinking from it, as if it were not safe to 
look. 

A curse upon the fiery devil, thundering along so 
smoothly, tracked through the distant valley by a glare 
of light and lurid smoke, and gone ! He felt as if he 
had been plucked out of its path, and saved from being 
torn asunder. It made him shrink and shudder even 
now, when its faintest hum was hushed, and when the 
lines of iron road he could trace in the moonlight, run- 
ning to a point, were as empty and as silent as a desert. 

Unable to rest, and irresistibly attracted — or he 
thought so — to this road, he went out, and lounged on 
the brink of it, marking the way the train had gone, by 
the yet smoking cinders that were lying in its track. 
After a lounge of some half hour in the direction by 
which it had disappeared, he turned and walked the 
other way — still keeping to the brink of the road — 
past the inn garden, and a long way down ; looking curi- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


193 


ously at the bridges, signals, lamps, and wondering when 
another Devil would come by. 

A trembling of the ground, a quick vibration in hia 
ears ; a distant shriek ; a dull light advancing, quickly 
changed to two red eyes, and a fierce fire, dropping glow- 
ing coals ; an irresistible bearing on of a great roaring 
and dilating mass ; a high wind, and a rattle — anothei 
come and gone, and he holding to a gate, as if to save 
himself! 

He waited for another, and for another. He walked 
back to his former point, and back again to that, and still, 
through the wearisome vision of his journey, looked for 
these approaching monsters. He loitered about the station, 
waiting until one should stay to call there ; and when one 
did, and was detached for water, he stood parallel with it, 
watching its heavy wheels and brazen front, and thinking 
what a cruel power and might it had. Ugh ! To see 
the great wheels slowly turning, and to think of being 
run down and crushed ! 

Disordered with wine and want of rest — that want 
which nothing, although he was so weary, would appease 
— these ideas and objects assumed a diseased importance 
in his thoughts. When he went back to his room, which 
was not until near midnight, they still haunted him, and 
he sat listening for the coming of another. 

So in his bed, whither he repaired with no hope of 
sleep. He still lay listening ; and when he felt the 
trembling and vibration, got up and went to the window, 
to watch (as he could from its position) the dull light 
changing to the two red eyes, and the fierce fire drop- 
ping glowing coals, and the rush of the giant as it fled 
past, and the track of glare and smoke along the valley. 
Then he would glance in the direction by which he in- 
VOL. IV. 13 


194 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


tended to depart at sunrise, as there was no rest for him 
there ; and would lie down again, to be troubled by the 
vision of his journey, and the old monotony of bells and 
wheels and horses’ feet, until another came. This lasted 
all night. So far from resuming the mastery of himself, 
he seemed, if possible, to lose it more and more, as the 
night crept on. When the dawn appeared, he was still 
tormented with thinking, still postponing thought until he 
should be in a better state ; the past, present, and future 
all floated confusedly before him, and he had* lost all 
power of looking steadily at any one of them. 

“ At what time,” he asked the man who had waited on 
him overnight, now entering with a candle, “ do I leave 
here, did you say ? ” 

“ About a quarter after four, sir. Express comes 
through at four, sir. — Don’t stop.” 

He passed his hand across his throbbing head, and 
looked at his watch. Nearly half-past three. 

“ Nobody going with you, sir, probably,” observed the 
man. “Two gentlemen here, sir, but they’re waiting for 
the train to London.” 

“ I thought you said there was nobody here,” said 
Carker, turning upon him with the ghost of his old smile, 
when he was angry or suspicious. 

“ Not then, sir. Two gentlemen came in the night by 
the short train that stops here, sir. Warm water, sir?" 

“ No ; and take away the candle. There’s day enough 
for me.” 

Having thrown himself upon the bed, half dressed, he 
was at the window as the man left the room. The cold 
light of morning had succeeded to night, and there was, 
already, in the sky, the red suffusion of the coming sun. 
He bathed his head and face with water — there was no 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


195 


cooling influence in it for him — hurriedly put on his 
clothes, paid what he owed, and went out. 

The air struck chill and comfortless as it breathed 
upon him. There was a heavy dew ; and, hot as he 
was, it made him shiver. After a glance at the place 
where he had walked last night, and at the signal-lights 
burning feebly in the morning, and bereft of their sig- 
nificance, he turned to where the sun was rising, and 
beheld it, in its glory, as it broke upon the scene. 

So awful, so transcendent in its beauty, so divinely 
solemn. As he cast his faded eyes upon it, where ft 
rose, tranquil and serene, unmoved by all the wrong and 
wickedness on which its beams had shone since the be- 
ginning of the world, who shall say that some weak sense 
of virtue upon Earth, and its reward in Heaven, did not 
manifest itself, even to him ? If ever he remembered 
sister or brother with a touch of tenderness and remorse, 
who shall say it was not then ? 

He needed some such touch then. Death was on him. 
He was marked off from the living world, and going 
down into his grave. 

He paid the money for his journey to the country- 
place he had thought of; and was walking to and fro, 
alone, looking along the lines of iron, across the valley in 
one direction, and towards a dark bridge near at hand in 
the other; when, turning in his walk, where it was bounded 
by one end of the wooden stage on which he paced up 
and down, he saw the man from whom he had fled, 
emerging from the door by which he himself had entered 
there. And their eyes met. 

In the quick unsteadiness of the surprise, he staggered, 
and slipped on to the road below him. But recovering 

his feet immediately, he stepped back a pace or two upon 

i 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


i on 


that road, to interpose some wider space between them, 
and looked at his pursuer, breathing short and quick. 

He heard a shout — another — saw the face change 
from its vindictive passion to a faint sickness and terror 
— felt the earth tremble — knew in a moment that the 
rush was come — uttered a shriek — looked round — 
saw the red eyes, bleared and dim, in the daylight, close 
upon him — was beaten down, caught up, and whirled 
away upon a jagged mill, that spun him round and round, 
and struck him limb from limb, and licked his stream of 
life up with its fiery heat, and cast his mutilated frag- 
ments in the air. 

When the traveller who had been recognized, recov- 
ered from a swoon, he saw them bringing from a distance 
something covered, that lay heavy and still, upon a board, 
between four men, and saw that others drove some dogs 
away that sniffed upon the road, and soaked his blood up, 
with a train of ashes. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


197 


CHAPTER LVI. 

SEVERAL PEOPLE DELIGHTED, AND THE GAME CHICKEN 
DISGUSTED. 

The Midshipman was all alive. Mr. Toots and Susan 
had arrived at last. Susan had run up-stairs like a 
young woman bereft of her senses, and Mr. Toots and 
the Chicken had gone into the parlor. 

“ Oh my own pretty darling sweet Miss Floy ! ” cried 
the Nipper, running into Florence’s room, “ to think that 
it should come to this and I should find you here my own 
dear dove with nobody to wait upon you and no home to 
call your own but never, never will I go away again 
Miss Floy for though I may not gather moss I’m not a 
rolling stone nor is my heart a stone or else it wouldn’t 
bust as it is busting now oh dear oh dear ! ” 

Pouring out these words, without the faintest indica- 
tion of a stop, of any sort, Miss Nipper, on her knees 
beside her mistress, hugged her close. 

“ Oh love ! ” cried Susan, u I know all that’s past, I 
know it all my tender pet and I’m a choking give me 
air ! ” 

“ Susan, dear good Susan ! ” said Florence. 

“ Oh bless her ! I that was her little maid when she 
was a little child ! and is she really, really truly going to 
be married ! ” exclaimed Susan, in a burst of pain and 
pleasure, pride and grief, and Heaven knows how many 
other conflicting feelings. 


198 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Who told you so ? ” said Florence. 

“ Oh gracious me ! that innocentest creetur Toots,” 
returned Susan, hysterically. “ I knew he must be right 
my dear, because he took on so. He’s the devotedest 
and innocentest infant ! And is my darling,” pursued 
Susan, with another close embrace and burst of tears, 
ft really, really going to be married ! ” 

The mixture of compassion, pleasure, tenderness, pro- 
tection, and regret with which the Nipper constantly re- 
curred to this subject, and at every such recurrence, 
raised her head to look in the young face and kiss it, 
and then laid her head again upon her mistress’s shoul- 
der, caressing her and sobbing, was as womanly and 
good a thing, in its way, as ever was seen in the world. 

“ There, there ! ” said the soothing voice of Florence 
presently. “ Now you’re quite yourself, dear Susan ! ” 

Miss Nipper, sitting down upon the floor, at her mis- 
tress’s feet, laughing and sobbing, holding her pocket- 
handkerchief to her eyes with one hand, and patting 
Diogenes with the other as he licked her face, confessed 
to being more composed, and laughed and cried a little 
more in proof of it. 

“I — I — I never did see such a creetur as that 
Toots,” said Susan, “ in all my born days, never ! ” 

“ So kind,” suggested Florence. 

“ And so comic ! ” Susan sobbed. u The Tray he’s 
been going on inside with me, with that disrespectable 
Chicken on the box ! ” 

“About what, Susan?” inquired Florence, timidly. 

“ Oh about Lieutenant Walters, and Captain Gills, 
and you my dear Miss Floy, and the silent tomb,” said 
Susan. 

“ The silent tomb ! ” repeated Florence. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


199 


“ He says,” here Susan burst into a violtnt hysterical 
laugh, “ that he’ll go down into it now, immediately and 
quite comfortable, but bless your heart my dear Miss 
Floy he won’t, he’s a great deal too happy in seeing 
other people happy for that, he may not be a Solomon,” 
pursued the Nipper, with her usual volubility, “ nor do 
I say he is, but this I do say, a less selfish human crea- 
ture human nature never knew ! ” 

Miss Nipper being still hysterical, laughed immoder- 
ately after making this energetic declaration, and then 
informed Florence that he was waiting below to see her ; 
which would be a rich repayment for the trouble he had 
had in his late expedition. 

Florence entreated Susan to beg of Mr. Toots as a 
favor that she might have the pleasure of thanking him 
for his kindness ; and Susan, in a few moments, produced 
that young gentleman, still very much dishevelled in ap- 
pearance, and stammering exceedingly. 

“ Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots. “ To be again per- 
mitted to — to — gaze — at least, not to gaze, but — I 
don’t exactly know what I was going to say, but it’s of 
no consequence.” 

“ I have to thank you so often,” returned Florence, 
giving him both her hands, with all her innocent grati- 
tude beaming in her face, “ that I have no words left, 
and don’t know how to do it.” 

“ Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots, in an awful voice, 
“ if it was possible that you could, consistently with your 
angelic nature, curse me, you would — if I may be al- 
lowed to say so — floor me infinitely less, than by these 
undeserved expressions of kindness. Their effect upon 
me — is — but,” said Mr. Toots, abruptly, u this is a di- 
gression, and ’s of no consequence at all.” 


200 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


As there seemed to be no means of replying to this, 
but by thanking him again, Florence thanked him again, 

“ I could wish,” said Mr. Toots, u to take this oppor- 
tunity, Miss Dombey, if I might, of entering into a word 
of explanation. I should have had the pleasure of — of 
returning with Susan at an earlier period ; but, in the 
first place, we didn’t know the name of the relation to 
whose house she had gone, and, in the second, as she 
had left that relation’s and gone to another at a distance, 
I think that scarcely anything short of the sagacity 
of the Chicken, would have found her out in the time.’' 

Florence was sure of it. 

“ This, however,” said Mr. Toots, “ is not the point. 
The company of Susan has been, I assure you, Miss 
Dombey, a consolation and satisfaction to me, in my state 
of mind, more easily conceived, than described. The 
journey has been its own reward. That, however, still, 
is not the point. Miss Dombey, I have before observed 
that I know I am not what is considered a quick person. 
I am perfectly aware of that. I don’t think anybody 
could be better acquainted with his own — if it was not 
too strong an expression, I should say with the thickness 
of his own — head than myself. But, Miss Dombey, I 
do, notwithstanding, perceive the state of — of things — • 
with Lieutenant Walters. Whatever agony that state of 
things may have caused me (which is of no consequence 
at all), I am bound to say, that Lieutenant Walters is a 
person who appears to be worthy of the blessing that has 
fallen on his — on his brow. May he wear it long, and 
appreciate it, as a very different, and very unworthy in- 
dividual, that it is of no consequence to name would have 
done! That, however, still, is not the point. Miss Dom- 
bey, Captain Gills is a friend of mine ; and during the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


201 


interval that is now elapsing, I believe it would afford 
Captain Gills pleasure to see me occasionally coming 
backwards and forwards here. It would afford me pleas* 
ure so to come. But I cannot forget that I once com- 
mitted myself, fatally, at the corner of the Square at 
Brighton ; and if my presence will be, in the least de- 
gree, unpleasant to you, I only ask you to name it to 
me now, and assure you that I shall perfectly understand 
you. I shall not consider it at all unkind, and shall only 
be too delighted and happy to be honored with your con- 
fidence.” 

“ Mr. Toots,” returned Florence, “ if you, who are so 
old and true a friend of mine, were to stay away from 
this house now, you would make me very unhappy. It 
can never, never, give me any feeling but pleasure to 
see you.” 

“ Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots, taking out his pock- 
et-handkerchief, “ if I shed a tear, it is a tear of joy. 
It is of no consequence, and I am very much obliged to 
you. I may be allowed to remark, after what you have 
so kindly said, that it is not my intention to neglect my 
person any longer.” 

Florence received this intimation with the prettiest 
expression of perplexity possible. 

“ I mean,” said Mr. Toots, “ that I shall consider it 
my duty as a fellow-creature generally, until I am 
claimed by the silent tomb, to make the best of myself, 
and to- — to have my boots as brightly polished, as — as 
circumstances will admit of. This is the last time, Miss 
Dombey, of my intruding any observation of a private 
and personal nature. I thank you very much indeed. 
If I am not, in a general way, as sensible as my friends 
could wish me to be, or as I could wish myself, I really 


202 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


am, upon my word and honor, particularly sensible of 
what is considerate and kind. I feel,” said Mr. Toots, 
in an impassioned tone, “ as if I could express my feel- 
ings, at the present moment, in a most remarkable man- 
ner, if — if — I could only get a start.” 

Appearing not to get it, after waiting a minute or two 
to see if it would come, Mr. Toots took a hasty leave, 
and went below to seek the captain, whom he found in 
the shop. 

“ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “ what is now to take 
place between us, takes place under the sacred seal 
of confidence. It is the sequel, Captain Gills, of what 
has taken place between myself and Miss Dombey, up- 
stairs.” 

“ Alow and aloft, eh, my lad ? ” murmured the captain. 

“ Exactly so, Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, whose 
fervor of acquiescence was greatly heightened by his 
entire ignorance of the captain’s meaning. “ Miss Dom- 
bey, I believe, Captain Gills, is to be shortly united to 
Lieutenant Walters?” 

“Why, ay, my lad. We’re all shipmets here, — 
Wal’r and sweetheart will be jined together in the house 
of bondage, as soon as the askings is over,” whispered 
Captain Cuttle, in his ear. 

“ The askings, Captain Gills ! ” repeated Mr. Toots. 

“ In the church, down yonder,” said the captain, point- 
ing his thumb over his shoulder. 

“ Oh ! Yes ! ” returned Mr. Toots. 

“ And then,” said the captain, in his hoarse whisper, 
and tapping Mr. Toots on the chest with the back of his 
hand, and falling from him with a look of infinite ad- 
miration, “ what follers ? That there pretty creetur, 
as delicately brought up as a foreign bird, goes away 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


203 


upon the roaring main with Wal’r on a woyage to 
China.” 

“ Lord, Captain Gills ! ” said Mr. Toots. 

“ Ay ! ” nodded the captain. “ The ship as took him 
up, when he was wrecked in the hurricane that had 
drove her clean out of her course, was a China trader, 
and Wal’r made the woyage, and got into favor, aboard 
and ashore — being as smart and good a lad as ever 
stepped — and so, the supercargo dying at Canton, he 
got made (having acted as clerk afore), and now he’s 
supercargo aboard another ship, same owners. And so, 
you see,” repeated the captain, thoughtfully, “ the pretty 
creetur goes away upon the roaring main with Wal’r, on 
a woyage to China.” 

Mr. Toots and Captain Cuttle heaved a sigh in concert. 

“What then?” said the captain. “She loves him 
true. He loves her, true. Them as should have loved 
and fended of her, treated of her like the beasts as 
perish. When she, cast out of home, come here to me, 
and dropped upon them planks, her wownded heart was 
broke. I know it. I, Ed’ard Cuttle, see it. ^ There’s 
nowt but true, kind, steady love, as can ever piece it up 
again. If so be I didn’t know that, and didn’t know 
as Wal’r was her true love, brother, and she his, I’d 
have these here blue arms and legs chopped off, afore 
I’d let her go. But I do know it, and what then ? 
Why, then, I say, Heaven go with ’em both, and so it 
will ! Amen ! ” 

“ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “ let me have the 
pleasure of shaking hands. You’ve a way of saying 
things, that gives me an agreeable warmth, all up my 
back. I say Amen. You are aware, Captain Gills, 
that I, too, have adored Miss Dombey.” 


204 


DOMBEY 1ND SON. 


“ Cheer up ! ” said the captain, laying his hand on 
Mr. Toots’s shoulder. “ Stand by, boy ! ” 

“ It is my intention, Captain Gills,” returned the spir- 
ited Mr. Toots, “ to cheer up. Also to stand by, as much 
as possible. When the silent tomb shall yawn, Captain 
Gills, I shall be ready for burial ; not before. But not 
being certain, just at present, of my power over myself, 
what I wish to say to you, and what I shall take it as a 
particular favor if you will mention to Lieutenant Wal- 
ters, is as follows.” 

“ Is as follers,” echoed the captain. “ Steady ! ” 

“ Miss Dombey being so inexpressibly kind,” continued 
Mr. Toots with watery eyes, “ as to say that my presence 
is the reverse of disagreeable to her, and you and everv- 
body here being no less forbearing and tolerant towards 
one who — who certainly,” said Mr. Toots, with momen- 
tary dejection, “ would appear to have been born by 
mistake, I shall come backwards and forwards of an 
evening, during the short time we can all be together. 
But what I ask is this. If, at any moment, I find that I 
cannot endure the contemplation of Lieutenant Walters’s 
bliss, and should rush out, I hope, Captain Gills, that 
you and he will both consider it as my misfortune and 
not my fault, or the want of inward conflict. That you’ll 
feel convinced I bear no malice to any living creature — 
least of all to Lieutenant Walters himself — and that 
you’ll casually remark that I have gone out for a walk, 
or probably to see what o’clock it is by the Royal Ex- 
change. Captain Gills, if you could enter into this 
arrangement, and could answer for Lieutenant Walters, 
it would be a relief to my feelings that I should think 
cheap at the sacrifice of a considerable portion of my 
property.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


205 


“ My lad,” returned the captain, “ say no more. There 
a’n’t a color you can run up, as won’t be made out, and 
answered to, by Wal’r and self.” 

“ Captain Gills,” said Mr. Toots, “ my mind is greatly 
relieved. I wish to preserve the good opinion of all 
here. I — I — mean well, upon my honor, however 
badly I may show it. You know,” said Mr. Toots, “ it’s 
exactly as if Burgess and Co. wished to oblige a cus- 
tomer with a most extraordinary pair of trousers, and 
could not cut out what they had in their minds.” 

With this apposite illustration, of which he seemed a 
little proud, Mr. Toots gave Captain Cuttle his blessing 
and departed. 

The honest captain, with his Heart’s Delight in the 
house, and Susan tending her, was a beaming and a hap- 
py man. As the days flew by, he grew more beaming 
and more happy, every day. After some conferences 
with Susan (for whose wisdom the captain had a pro- 
found respect, and whose valiant precipitation of herself 
on Mrs. MacStinger he could never forget), he proposed 
to Florence that the daughter of the elderly lady who 
usually sat under the blue umbrella in Leadenhall Mar- 
ket, should, for prudential reasons and considerations of 
privacy, be superseded in the temporary discharge of the 
household duties, by some one who was not unknown tc 
them, and in whom they could safely confide. Susan 
being present, then named, in furtherance of a sugges- 
tion she had previously offered to the captain, Mrs. Rich- 
ards. Florence brightened at the name. And Susan, 
setting off that very afternoon to the Toodle domicile, to 
sound Mrs. Richards, returned in triumph the same 
evening, accompanied by the identical rosy-cheeked, 
apple-faced Polly, whose demonstrations, when brought 


206 


DOMBE Y AND SON. 


into Florence’s presence, were hardly less affectionate 
than those of Susan Nipper herself. 

This piece of generalship accomplished ; from which 
the captain derived uncommon satisfaction, as he did, 
indeed, from everything else that was done, whatever it 
happened to be ; Florence had next to prepare Susan for 
their approaching separation. This was a much more 
difficult task, as Miss Nipper was of a resolute dispo- 
sition, and had fully made up her mind that she had 
come back never to be parted from her old mistress 
any more. 

“ As to wages dear Miss Floy,” she said, “ you would- 
n’t hint and wrong me so as think of naming them, for 
I’ve put money by and wouldn’t sell my love and duty 
at a time like this even if the Savings’ Bank and me 
were total strangers or the Banks were broke to pieces, 
but you’ve never been without me darling from the time 
your poor dear Ma was took away, and though I’m noth- 
ing to be boasted of you’re used to me and oh my own 
dear mistress through so many years don’t think of going 
anywhere without me, for it mustn’t and can’t be ! ” 

“ Dear Susan, I am going on a long, long voyage.” 

“ Well Miss Floy, and what of that? the more you’ll 
want me. Lengths of voyages a’n’t an object in my 
eyes, thank God ! ” said the impetuous Susan Nipper. 

“ But Susan, I am going with Walter, and I would go 
with Walter anywhere — everywhere ! Walter is poor, 
and I am very poor, and I must learn, now, both to help 
myself, and help him.” 

“ Dear Miss Floy ! ” cried Susan, bursting out afresh, 
and shaking her head violently, “ it’s nothing new to you 
to help yourself and others too and be the patientest and 
truest of noble hearts, but let me talk to Mr. Walter 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


207 


Gay and settle it with him, for suffer you to go away 
across the world alone I cannot, and I won’t.” 

“ Alone, Susan ? ” returned Florence. “ Alone ? and 
Walter taking me with him!” Ah, what a bright, 
amazed, enraptured smile was on her face ! — He should 
have seen it. “ I am sure you will not speak to Walter, 
if I ask you not,” she added tenderly ; “ and pray don’t, 
dear.” . 

Susan sobbed, “Why not, Miss Floy?” 

“ Because,” said Florence, “ I am going to be his wife, 
to give him up my whole heart, and to live with him and 
die with him. He might think, if you said to him wdiat 
you have said to me, that I am afraid of what s before 
me, or that you have some cause to be afraid for me. 
Why, Susan, dear, I love him ! ” 

Miss Nipper was so much affected by the quiet fervor 
of these words, and the simple, heartfelt, all-pervading 
earnestness expressed in them, and making the speaker’s 
face more beautiful and pure than ever, that she could 
only cling to her again, crying Was her little mistress 
really, really going to be married, and pitying, caressing, 
and protecting her, as she had done before. 

But the Nipper, though susceptible of womanly weak- 
nesses, was almost as capable of putting constraint upon 
herself as of attacking the redoubtable MacStinger. 
From that time, she never returned to the subject, but 
was always cheerful, active, bustling, and hopeful. She 
did, indeed, inform Mr. Toots privately, that she was 
only “ keeping up ” for the time, and that when it was 
all over, and Miss Dombey was gone, she might be ex- 
pected to become a spectacle distressful ; and Mr Toots 
did also express that it was his case too, and that they 
would mingle their tears together ; but she never other- 


208 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


wise indulged her private feelings in the presence of 
Florence or within the precincts of the Midshipman. 

Limited and plain as Florence’s wardrobe was — what 
a contrast to that prepared for the last marriage in 
which she had taken part ! — there was a good deal to 
do in getting it ready, and Susan Nipper worked away at 
her side, all day, with the concentrated zeal of fifty 
sempstresses. The wonderful contributions Captain Cut- 
tie would have made to this branch of the outfit, if 
he had been permitted — as pink parasols, tinted silk 
stockings, blue shoes, and other articles no less necessary 
on shipboard — would occupy some space in the recital. 
He was induced, however, by various fraudulent repre 
sentations, to limit his contributions to a work-box and 
dressing-case, of each of which he purchased the very 
largest specimen that could be got for money. For ten 
days or a fortnight afterwards, he generally sat, during 
the greater part of the day, gazing at these boxes ; 
divided between extreme admiration of them, and de- 
jected misgivings that they were not gorgeous enough, 
and frequently diving out into the street to purchase 
some wild article that he deemed necessary to their com- 
pleteness. But his master-stroke was, the bearing of 
them both off, suddenly, one morning, and getting the 
two words Florence Gay engraved upon a brass heart 
inlaid over the lid of each. After this, he smoked four 
pipes successively in the little parlor by himself, and was 
discovered chuckling, at the expiration of as many hours. 

Walter was busy and away all day, but came there 
every morning early to see Florence, and always passed 
the evening with her. Florence never left her high 
rooms but tc steal down-stairs to wait for him when if 
was his time to come, or, sheltered by his proud, encir 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


209 


cling arm, to bear him company to the door again, and 
sometimes peep into the street. In the twilight they 
were always together. Oh blessed time ! Oh wander- 
ing heart at rest ! Oh deep, exhaustless, mighty well 
of love, in which so much was sunk ! 

The cruel mark was on her bosom yet. It rose against 
her father with the breath she drew, it lay between her 
and her lover when he pressed her to his heart. But 
she forgot it. In the beating of that heart for her, and 
in the beating of her own for him, all harsher music was 
unheard, all stern unloving hearts forgotten. Fragile 
and delicate she was, but with a might of love within 
her that could, and did, create a world to fly to, and to 
rest in, out of his one image. 

How often did the great house, and the old days, come 
before her in the twilight time, when she was sheltered 
by the arm, so proud, so fond, and, creeping closer to 
him, shrunk within it at the recollection ! How often, 
from remembering the night when she went down to that 
room and met the never-to-be-forgotten look, did she 
raise her eyes to those that watched her with such loving 
earnestness, and weep with happiness in such a refuge ! 
The more she clung to it, the more the dear dead child 
was in her thoughts ; but as if the last time she had seen 
her father, had been when he was sleeping and she 
kissed his face, she always left him so, and never, in her 
fancy, passed that hour. 

“ Walter, dear,” said Florence, one evening, when it 
was almost dark. “ Do you know what I have been 
thinking to-day ? ” 

“ Thinking how the time is flying on, and how soon 
we shall be upon the sea, sweet Florence ? ” 

“ I don’t mean that, Walter, though I think of 
VOL iv. 14 


210 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


that too. I have been thinking what a charge I am to 
you.” 

“ A precious, sacred charge, dear heart ! Why I think 
that sometimes.” 

“ You are laughing, Walter. I know that’s much more 
in your thoughts than mine. But I mean a cost.” 

“ A cost, my own ? ” 

u In money, dear. All these preparations that Susan 
and I are so busy with — I have been able to purchase 
very little for myself. You were poor before. But 
how much poorer I shall make you, Walter ! ” 

“ And how much richer, Florence ! ” 

Florence laughed, and shook her head. 

“ Besides,” said Walter, “ long ago — beiore I went to 
sea — I had a little purse presented to me, dearest, 
which had money in it.” 

“ Ah ! ” returned Florence laughing sorrowfully, “ very 
little ! Very little, Walter ! But, you must not think,” 
and here she laid her light hand on his shoulder, and 
looked into his face, “ that I regret to be this burden on 
you. No, dear love, I am glad of it. I am happy in it. 
I wouldn’t have it otherwise for all the world ! ” 

“ Nor I, indeed, dear Florence.” 

“ Ay ! But Walter, you can never feel it as I do. I 
am so proud of you ! It makes my heart swell with 
such delight to know that those who speak of you must 
say you married a poor disowned girl, who had taken 
shelter here ; who had no other home, no other friends ; 
who had nothing — nothing! Oh Walter, if I could 

O O 7 

have brought you millions, I never could have been so 
happy for your sake, as I am ! ” 

“ And you, dear Florence ? are you nothing ? ” he 
returned. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


211 


“ No, nothing, Walter. Nothing but your wife. 0 The 
light hand .stole about his neck, and the voice came 
nearer — nearer. “ I am nothing any more, that is not 
you. I have no earthly hope any more, that is not you. 
I have nothing dear to me any more, that is not you.” 

Oh ! well might Mr. Toots leave the little company 
that evening, and twice go out to correct his watch by 
the Royal Exchange, and once to keep an appoint- 
ment with a banker which he suddenly remembered, 
and once to take a little turn to Aldgate Pump and 
back ! 

But before he went upon these expeditions, or indeed 
before he came, and before lights were brought, Walter 
said : 

“ Florence love, the lading of our ship is nearly fin- 
ished, and probably on the very day of our marriage 
she will drop down the river. Shall we go away that 
morning, and stay in Kent until we go on board at 
Gravesend within a week ? ” 

“If you please, Walter. I shall be happy anywhere. 
But ” 

“ Yes, my life ? ” 

“ You know,” said Florence, “ that we shall have no 
marriage-party, and that nobody will distinguish us by 
our dress from other people. As we leave the same 
day, will you — will you take me somewhere that morn- 
ing Walter — early — before we go to church ? ” 

Walter seemed to understand her, as so true a lover 
so truly loved should, and confirmed his ready promise 
with a kiss — with more than one perhaps, or two or 
three, or five or six ; and in the grave, calm, peaceful 
evening, Florence was very happy. 

Then into the quiet room came Susan Nipper and 


212 


DOMBEY AND SON 


ihe candles ; shortly afterwards, the tea, the captain, and 
the excursive Mr. Toots, who, as above mentioned, was 
frequently on the move afterwards, and passed but a 
restless evening. This, however, was not his habit : for 
he generally got on very well, by dint of playing at 
cribbage with the captain under the advice and guid- 
ance of Miss Nipper, and distracting his mind with the 
calculations incidental to the game ; which he found to be 
a very effectual means of utterly confounding himself. 

The captain’s visage on these occasions presented one 
of the finest examples of combination and succession of 
expression ever observed. His instinctive delicacy and 
his chivalrous feeling towards Florence, taught him that it 
was not a time for any boisterous jollity, or violent display 
of satisfaction. Certain floating reminiscences of Lovely 
Peg, on the other hand, were constantly struggling for a 
vent, and urging the captain to commit himself by some 
irreparable demonstration. Anon, his admiration of 
Florence and Walter — well-matched truly, and full of 
grace and interest in their youth, and love, and good 
looks, as they sat apart — would take such complete 
possession of him, that he would lay down his cards, 
and beam upon them, dabbing his head all over with 
his pocket-handkerchief ; until warned, perhaps, by the 
sudden rushing forth of Mr. Toots, that he had uncon- 
sciously been very instrumental indeed, in making that 
gentleman miserable. This reflection would make the 
captain profoundly melancholy, until the return of Mr. 
Toots ; when he would fall to his cards again, with many 
side winks and nods, and polite waves of his hook at 
Miss Nipper, importing that he wasn’t going to do so any 
more. The state that ensued on this, was, perhaps, his 
best ; for then, endeavoring to discharge all expression 


DOMBEY 1ND SON. 


213 


• 

from his face, he would sit staring round the reom, with 
all these expressions conveyed into it at once, and each 
wrestling with the other. Delighted admiration of 
Florence and Walter always overthrew the rest, and 
remained victorious and undisguised, unless Mr. Toots 
made another rush into the air, and then the captain 
would sit, like a remorseful culprit, until he came back 
again, occasionally calling upon himself, in a low re- 
proachful voice, to “ Stand by ! ” or growling some 
remonstrance to “ Ed’ard Cuttle my lad,” on the want 
of caution observable in his behavior. 

One of Mr. Toots’s hardest trials, however, was of 
his own seeking. On the approach of the Sunday which 
was to witness the last of those askings in church of 
which the captain had spoken, Mr. Toots thus stated his 
feelings to Susan Nipper. 

“ Susan,” said Mr. Toots, “ I am drawn towards the 
building. The words which cut me off from Miss Dom- 
bey forever, will strike upon my ears like a knell you 
know, but upon my word and honor, I feel that I must 
hear them. Therefore,” said Mr. Toots, “ will you ac- 
company me to-morrow, to the sacred edifice ? ” 

Miss Nipper expressed her readiness to do so, if that 
would be any satisfaction to Mr. Toots, but besought him 
to abandon his idea of going. 

“ Susan,” returned Mr. Toots, with much solemnity, 
* before my whiskers began to be observed by anybody 
but myself, I adored Miss Dombey. While yet a victim 
to the thraldom of Blimber, I adored Miss Dombey. 
When I could no longer be kept out of my property, in 
a legal point of view, and — and accordingly came into 
it — I adored Miss Dombey. The banns which consign 
her to Lieutenant Walters, and me to — to Gloom, you 


214 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


# 

know/’ said Mr. Toots, after hesitating for a strong ex- 
pression, “ may be dreadful, will be dreadful ; but I feel 
that I should wish to hear them spoken. 1 feel that I 
should wish to know, that the ground was certainly cut 
from under me, and that I hadn’t a hope to cherish, or 
a — or a leg, in short, to — to go upon.” 

, Susan Nipper could only commiserate Mr. Toots’s un* 
fortunate condition, and agree, under these circumstances, 
to accompany him ; which she did next morning. 

The church Walter had chosen for the purpose, was 
a mouldy old church in a yard, hemmed in by a laby- 
rinth of back streets and courts, with a little burying- 
ground round it, and itself buried in a kind of vault 
formed by the neighboring houses, and paved with echo- 
ing stones. It was a great dim, shabby pile, with high 
old oaken pews, among which about a score of people 
lost themselves every Sunday ; while the clergyman’s 
voice drowsily resounded through the emptiness, and the 
organ rumbled and rolled as if the church had got the 
colic, for want of a congregation to keep the wind and 
damp out. But so far was this City church from lan- 
guishing for the company of other churches, that spires 
were clustered round it, as the masts of shipping clus- 
ter on the river. It would have been hard to count 
them from its steeple-top, they were so many. In al- 
most every yard and blind-place near, there was a 
church. The confusion of bells when Susan and Mr. 
Toots betook themselves towards it on the Sunday morn- 
ing, was deafening. There were twenty churches close 
together, clamoring for people to come in. 

The two stray sheep in question were penned by a 
beadle in a commodious pew, and, being early, sat for 
some time counting the congregation, listening to the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


215 


disappointed bell high up in the tower, or looking at a 
shabby little old man in the porch behind the screen, 
who was ringing the same, like the bull in Cock Robin, 
with his foot in a stirrup. Mr. Toots, after a lengthened 
survey of the large books on the reading-desk, whispered 
Miss Nipper that he wondered where the banns were 
kept, but that young lady merely shook her head and 
frowned ; repelling for the time all approaches of a tem- 
poral nature. 

Mr. Toots, however, appearing unable to keep his 
thoughts from the banns, was evidently looking out for 
them during the whole preliminary portion of the service. 
As the time for reading them approached, the poor young 
gentleman manifested great anxiety and trepidation, 
which was not diminished by the unexpected apparition 
of the captain in the front row of the gallery. When 
the clerk handed up a list to the clergyman, Mr. Toots, 
being then seated, held on by the seat of the pew ; but 
when the names of Walter Gay and Florence Dombey 
were read aloud as being in the third and last stage of 
that association, he was so entirely conquered by his 
feelings as to rush from the church without his hat, 
followed by the beadle and pew-opener, and two gentle- 
men of the medical profession, who happened to be pres- 
ent ; of whom the first-named presently returned for that 
article, informing Miss Nipper in a whisper that she was 
not to make herself uneasy about the gentleman, as the 
gentlemafi said his indisposition was of no consequence. 

Miss Nipper, feeling that the eyes of that integral 
portion of Europe which lost itself weekly among the 
high-backed pews, were upon her, would have been suf- 
ficiently embarrassed by this incident, though it had 
terminated here ; the more so, as the captain in the 


216 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


front row of the gallery, was in a state of unmitigated 
consciousness which could hardly fail to express to the 
congregation that he had some mysterious connection 
with it. But the extreme restlessness of Mr. Toots pain- 
fully increased and protracted the delicacy of her situa- 
tion. That young gentleman, incapable, in his state of 
mind, of remaining alone in the church-yard, a prey to 
solitary meditation, and also desirous, no doubt, of tes- 
tifying his respect for the offices he had in some meas- 
ure interrupted, suddenly returned — not coming back 
to the pew, but stationing himself on a free-seat in the 
aisle, between two elderly females who were in the habit 
of receiving their portion of a weekly dole of bread then 
set forth on a shelf in the porch. In this conjunction 
Mr. Toots remained, greatly disturbing the congregation, 
who felt it impossible to avoid looking at him, until his 
feelings overcame him again, when he departed silently 
and suddenly. Not venturing to trust himself in the 
church any more, and yet wishing to have some social 
participation in what was going on there, Mr. Toots w r as, 
after this, seen from time to time, looking in, with a 
lorn aspect, at one or other of the windows ; and as 
there were several windows accessible to him from with- 
out, and as his restlessness was very great, it not only 
became difficult to conceive at which window he would 
appear next, but likewise became necessary, as it were, 
for the whole congregation to speculate upon the chances 
of the different windows, during the comparative leisure 
afforded them by the sermon. Mr. Toots’s movements 
in the church-yard were so eccentric, that he seemed 
generally to defeat all calculation, and to appear, like 
the conjurer’s figure, where he was least expected; and 
the effect of these mysterious presentations was much 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


217 


increased by its being difficult to him to see in, and 
easy to everybody else to see out : which occasioned his 
remaining, every time, longer than might have been 
expected, with his face close to the glass, until he all 
at once became aware that all eyes were upon him, and 
vanished. 

These proceedings on the part of Mr. Toots, and the 
strong individual consciousness of them that was exhib- 
ited by the captain, rendered Miss Nipper’s position so 
responsible a one, that she was mightily relieved by the 
conclusion of the service ; and was hardly so affable to 
Mr. Toots as usual, when he informed her and the cap- 
tain, on the way back, that now he was sure he had no 
hope, you know, he felt more comfortable — at least not 
exactly more comfortable, but more comfortably and 
completely miserable. 

Swiftly now, indeed, the time flew by, until it was the 
evening before the day appointed for the marriage. They 
w r ere all assembled in the upper room at the Midship- 
man’s, and had no fear of interruption ; for there were 
no lodgers in the house now', and the Midshipman had it 
all to himself. They were grave and quiet in the pros- 
pect of to-morrow, but moderately cheerful too. Flor- 
ence, with Walter close beside her, was finishing a little 
piece of work intended as a parting gift to the captain. 
The captain was playing cribbage with Mr. Toots. Mr. 
Toots w T as taking counsel as to his hand of Susjin Nip- 
per. Miss Nipper was giving it, with all due secrecy 
and circumspection. Diogenes w^as listening, and occa- 
sionally breaking out into a gruff, half-smothered frag- 
ment of a bark, of wffiich he afterwards seemed half- 
ashamed, as if he doubted having any reason for it. 

u Steady, steady ! ” said the captain to Diogenes, 


218 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ wli at’s amiss with you ? You don’t seem easy in youi 
mind to-night, my boy ! ” 

Diogenes wagged his tail, but pricked up his ears im- 
mediately afterwards, and gave utterance to another 
fragment of a bark ; for which he apologized to the cap- 
tain, by again wagging his tail. 

“ It’s my opinion, Di,” said the captain, looking 
thoughtfully at his cards, and stroking his chin with his 
hook, “ as you have your doubts of Mrs. Richards ; 
but if you’re the animal I take you to be, you’ll think 
better o’ that ; for her looks is her commission. Now, 
brother : ” to Mr. Toots : “ if so be as you’re ready, 
heave ahead.” 

The captain spoke with all composure and attention 
to the game, but suddenly his cards dropped out of his 
hand, his mouth and eyes opened wide, his legs drew 
themselves up and stuck out in front of his chair, and he 
sat staring at the door with blank amazement. Looking 
round upon the company, and seeing that none of them 
observed him or the cause of his astonishment, the cap- 
tain recovered himself with a great gasp, struck the 
table a tremendous blow, cried in a stentorian roar, 
“ Sol Gills ahoy ! ” and tumbled into the arras of a 
weather-beaten pea-coat that had come with Polly into 
the room. 

In another moment, Walter was in the arms of the 
weather-beaten pea-coat. In another moment, Florence 
was in the arms of the weather-beaten pea-coat. In an- 
other moment, Captain Cuttle had embraced Mrs. Rich- 
ards and Miss Nipper, and was violently shaking hands 
with Mr. Toots, exclaiming, as he waved his hook above 
his head, “ Hooroar, my lad, hooroar ! ” To which Mr. 
Toots, wholly at a loss to account for these proceedings. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


219 


replied with great politeness, “ Certainly, Captain Gills, 
whatever you think proper ! ” 

The weather-beaten pea-coat, and a no less weather- 
beaten cap and comforter belonging to it, turned from 
the captain and from Florence back to Walter, and 
sounds came from the weather-beaten pea-coat, cap, and 
comforter, as of an old man sobbing underneath them ; 
while the shaggy sleeves clasped Walter tight. During 
this pause, there w r as an universal silence, and the cap- 
tain polished his nose with great diligence. But when 
the pea-coat, cap, and comforter lifted themselves up 
again, Florence gently moved towards them ; and she 
and Walter taking them off, disclosed the old Instru- 
ment-maker, a little thinner and more careworn than of 
old, in his old Welsh wig and his old coffee-colored coat 
and basket buttons, with his old infallible chronometer 
ticking away in his pocket. 

“ Chock full o’ science,” said the radiant captain, “ as 
ever he w r as ! Sol Gills, Sol Gills, what have you been 
up to, for this many a long day, my ould boy ?” 

“ I’m half blind, Ned,” said the old man, “ and almost 
deaf and dumb with joy.” 

“ His wery woice,” said the captain, looking round 
with an exultation to which even his face could hardly 
render justice — “ his wery woice as chock full o’ science 
as ever it was ! Sol Gills, lay to, my lad, upon your 
own wines and fig-trees, like a taut ould patriarck as 
you are, and overhaul them there adwentures o’ yourn, 
in your own formilior woice. ’Tis the woice,” said the 
captain, impressively, and announcing a quotation with 
his hook, “ of the sluggard, I heerd him com-plain, you 
have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. Scatter 
his ene-mies, and make ’em fall ! ” 


220 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


The captain sat down with the air of a man who had 
happily expressed the feeling of everybody present, and 
immediately rose again to present Mr. Toots, who was 
much disconcerted by the arrival of anybody, appearing 
to prefer a claim to the name of Gills. 

“ Although, ” stammered Mr. Toots, “ I had not the 
pleasure of your acquaintance, sir, before you were — 
you were ” — 

“ Lost to sight, to memory dear,” suggested the cap- 
tain, in a low voice. 

u Exactly so, Captain Gills ! ” assented Mr. Toots. 
“ Although I had not the pleasure of your acquaintance, 
Mr. — Mr. Sols,” said Toots, hitting on that name in the 
inspiration of a bright idea, “ before that happened, I 
have the greatest pleasure, I assure you, in — you know, 
in knowing you. 1 hope,” said Mr. Toots, “ that you’re 
as well a& can be expected.” 

With these courteous words, Mr. Toots sat down 

blushing and chuckling. 

© © 

The old Instrument-maker, seated in a corner between 
Walter and Florence, and nodding at Polly, who was look- 
ing on, all smiles and delight, answered the captain thus : 

“ Ned Cuttle, my dear boy, although I have heard 
something of the changes of events here, from my 
pleasant friend there — what a pleasant face she has to 
be sure, to welcome a wanderer home ! ” said the old 
man, breaking off, and rubbing his hands in his old 
dieamy way. 

“ Hear him!” cried the captain gravely. u ’Tis woman 
as seduces all mankind. For which,” aside to Mr. 
Toots, “ you’ll overhaul your Adam and Eve, brother.” 

“ I shall make a point of doing so, Captain Gills,” said 
Mr. Toots. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


221 


u Although I have heard something of the changes of 
events from her/’ resumed the Instrument-maker, taking 
his old spectacles from his pocket, and putting them on 
his forehead in his old manner, “ they are so great and 
unexpected, and I am so overpowered by the sight of 
my dear boy, and by the ” — glancing at the downcast 
eyes of Florence, and not attempting to finish the sen- 
tence — “that I — I can’t say much to-night. But my 
dear Ned Cuttle, why didn’t you write ? ” 

The astonishment depicted in the captain’s features 
positively frightened Mr. Toots, whose eyes were quite 
fixed by it, so that he could not withdraw them from his 
face. 

“Write!” echoed the captain. “Write, Sol Gills!” 

“ Ay,” said the old man, “ either to Barbadoes, or 
Jamaica, or Demerara. That was what I asked.” 

“ What you asked, Sol Gills ! ” repeated the captain. 

“ Ay,” said the old man. “ Don’t you know, Ned ? Sure 
you have not forgotten ? Every time I wrote to you.” 

The captain took off his glazed hat, hung it on his 
hook, and smoothing his hair from behind with his hand, 
sat gazing at the group around him : a perfect image of 
wondering resignation. 

o o 

“ You don’t appear to understand me, Ned ! ” observed 
old Sol. 

“ Sol Gills,” returned the captain, after staring at him 
and the rest for a long time, without speaking, “ I’m gone 
about and adrift. Pay out a word or two respecting 
them adwenturs, will you ! Can’t I bring up, nohows ? 
nohows ? ” said the captain, ruminating, and staring all 
round. 

“ You know, Ned,” said Sol Gills, “ why I left here. 
Did you open my packet, Ned ? ” 


222 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Why, ay, ay,” said the captain. “ To be sure, I 
opened the packet.” 

“ And read it ? ” said the old man. 

“ And read it,” answered the captain, eying him at- 
tentively, and proceeding to quote it from memory. 
“ ‘ My dear Ned Cuttle, when I left home for the West 
Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear ’ — 
There he sits ! There’s Wal’r ! ” said the captain, as 
if he were relieved by getting hold of anything that 
was real and indisputable. 

“ Well, Ned, Now attend a moment!” said the old 
man. “ When I wrote first — that was from Barbadoes 

— I said that though you would receive that letter long 
before the year was out, I should be glad if you would 
open the packet, as it explained the reason of my going 
away. Very good, Ned. When I wrote the second, third, 
and perhaps the fourth times — that was from Jamaica 

— I said I was in just the same state, couldn’t rest, and 
couldn’t come away from that part of the world, without 
knowing that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote 
next — that, I think, was from Demerara, wasn’t it ? ” 

“ That he thinks was from Demerara, warn’t it ! ” said 
the captain, looking hopelessly round. 

— “I said,” proceeded old Sol, “ that still there was 
no certain information got yet. That I found many cap- 
tains and others, in that part of the world, who had known 
me for years, an3 who assisted me with a passage here 
and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do 
a little in return, in my own craft. That every one was 
sorry for me, and seemed to take a sort of interest in my 
wanderings ; and that I began to think it would be my 
fate to cruise about in search of tidings of my boy until I 
died.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


223 


“ Began to think as how he was a scientific flying 
Dutchman ! ” said the captain, as before, and with great 
seriousness. 

“ But when the news come one day, Ned, — that was 
L Barbadoes, after I got back there, — that a China 
trader home’ard bound had been spoke, that had my boy 
aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and 
came home ; and arrived at home to-night to find it true, 
thank God ! ” said the old man, devoutly. 

The captain, after bowing his head with great rever- 
ence, stared all round the circle, beginning with Mr. 
Toots, and ending with the Instrument-maker : then 
gravely said : 

“ Sol Gills ! The observation as I’m a-going to make 
is calc’lated to blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, 
clean out of the bolt-ropes, and bring you on your beam 
ends with a lurch. Not one of them letters was ever 
delivered to Ed’ard Cuttle. Not one o’ them letters,” 
repeated the captain, to make his declaration the more 
solemn and impressive, “ was ever delivered unto Ed’ard 
Cuttle, mariner, of England, as lives at home at ease, and 
doth improve each shining hour ! ” 

“ And posted by my own hand ! And directed by 
my own hand, Number nine, Brig-place ! ” exclaimed 
old Sol. 

The color all went out of the captain’s face, and all 
came back again in a glow. 

“ What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number 
nine, Brig-place ! ” inquired the captain. 

“ Mean ? Your lodgings, Ned,” returned the old man. 
“ Mrs. What’s-her-name ! I shall forget my own name 
next, but I am behind the present time — I always was, 
you recollect — and very much confused. Mrs.” — 


224 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Sol Gills ! ” said the captain, as if he were putting 
the most improbable case in the world, “ it a’n’t the 
name of MacStinger as you’re a-trying to remember ? ” 

“ Of course it is ! ” exclaimed the Instrument-maker. 
“ To be sure Ned. Mrs. MacStinger ! ” 

Captain Cuttle, whose eyes were now as wide open as 
they could be, and the knobs upon whose face were per- 
fectly luminous, gave a long shrill whistle of a most 
melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a 
state of speechlessness. 

“ Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so 
kind ? ” he said at last. 

“ All these letters,” returned Uncle Sol, beating time 
with the forefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his 
left, with a steadiness and distinctness that might have 
done honor, even to the infallible chronometer in his 
pocket, “ I posted with my own hand, and directed with 
my own hand, to Captain Cuttle, at Mrs. MacStinger’s, 
Number nine, Brig-place.” 

The captain took his glazed hat off his hook, looked 
into it, put it on, and sat down. 

“ Why, friends all,” said the captain, staring round 
in the last state of discomfiture, “ I cut and run from 
there ! ” 

“And no one knew where you were gone, Captain 
Cuttle?” cried Walter, hastily. 

“ Bless your heart, Wal’r,” said the captain, shaking 
his head, “ she’d never have allowed o’ my coming to 
take charge o’ this here property. Nothing could be 
done but cut and run. Lord love you, Wal’r ! ” said 
the captain, “ you’ve only seen her in a calm ! But see 
her when her angry passions rise — and make a note 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


225 


“ /’d give it her ! ” remarked the Nipper, softly, 

“ Would you, do you think, my dear ? ” returned the 
captain, with feeble admiration. “ Well, my dear, it 
does you credit. But there a’n’t no wild animal I 
wouldn’t sooner face myself. I only got my chest away 
by means of a friend as nobody’s a match for. It was no 
good sending any letter there. She wouldn’t take in any 
letter, bless you,” said the captain, “ under them circum- 
stances ! Why, you could hardly make it worth a man’s 
while to be the postman ! ” 

“ Then it’s pretty clear, Captain Cuttle, that all of us, 
and you and Uncle Sol especially,” said Walter, “ may 
thank Mrs. MacStinger for no small anxiety.” 

The general obligation in this wise to the determined 
relict of the late Mr. MacStinger, was so apparent, that 
the captain did not contest the point ; but being in some 
measure ashamed of his position, though nobody dwelt 
upon the subject, and Walter especially avoided it, re- 
membering the last conversation he and the captain had 
held together respecting it, he remained under a cloud 
for nearly five minutes — an extraordinary period for 
him — when that sun, his face, broke out once more, 
shining on all beholders with extraordinary brilliancy ; 
and he fell into a fit of shaking hands with everybody 
over and over again. 

At an early hour, but not before Uncle Sol and Wal- 
ter had questioned each other at some length about their 
voyages and dangers, they all, except Walter, vacated 
Florence’s room, and went down to the parlor. Here 
they were soon afterwards joined by Walter, who told 
them Florence was a little sorrowful and heavy-hearted, 
and had gone to bed. Though they could not have dis- 
turbed her with their voices down there, they all spoke 
von iv 15 


226 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


in a whisper after this : and each, in his different way, 
felt very lovingly and gently towards Walter’s fair young 
bride ; and a long explanation there was of everything 
relating to her, for the satisfaction of Uncle Sol ; and 
very sensible Mr. Toots was of the delicacy with which 
Walter made his name and services important, and hia 
presence necessary to their little council. 

“ Mr. Toots,” said Walter, on parting with him at the 
house door, “ we shall see each other to-morrow morn- 
ing ? ” 

“ Lieutenant Walters,” returned Mr. Toots, grasping 
his hand fervently, “ I shall certainly be present.” 

“ This is the last night we shall meet for a long time 
— the last night we may ever meet,” said Walter. 
“ Such a noble heart as yours, must feel, I think, when 
another heart is bound to it. I hope you know that I 
am very grateful to you ? ” 

“ Walters,” replied Mr. Toots, quite touched, “ I 
should be glad to feel that you had reason to be so.” 

“ Florence,” said Walter, “ on this last night of her 
bearing her own name, has made me promise — it was 
only just now, when you left us together — that I would 
tell you, with her dear love ” — 

Mr. Toots laid his hand upon the door-post, and his 
eyes upon his hand. 

— “ with her dear love,” said Walter, “ that she can 
never have a friend whom she will value above you. 
That the recollection of your true consideration for her 
always, can never be forgotten by her. That she re- 
members you in her prayers to-night, and hopes that you 
will think of her when she is far away. Shall I say any- 
thing for you ? ” 

“ Say, Walters,” replied Mr. Toots indistinctly, “ that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


227 


I shall think of her every day, but never without feeling 
happy to know that she is married to the man she loves, 
and who loves her. Say, if you please, that I am sure 
her husband deserves her — even her ! — and that I am 
glad of her choice.” 

Mr. Toots got more distinct as he came to these last 
words, and raising his eyes from the door-post, said them 
stoutly. He then shook Walter’s hand again with a 
fervor that Walter was not slow to return, and started 
homeward. 

Mr. Toots was accompanied by the Chicken, whom he 
had of late brought with him every evening, and left in 
the shop, with an idea that unforeseen circumstances 
might arise from without, in which the prowess of that 
distinguished character would be of service to the Mid- 
shipman. The Chicken did not appear to be in a par- 
ticularly good-humor on this occasion. Either the gas- 
lamps were treacherous, or he cocked his eye in a 
hideous manner, and likewise distorted his nose, when 
Mr. Toots, crossing the road, looked back over his shoul- 
der at the room where Florence slept. On the road 
home, he was more demonstrative of aggressive inten- 
tions against the other foot-passengers, than comported 
with a professor of the peaceful art of self-defence. Ar- 
rived at home, instead of leaving Mr. Toots in his apart- 
ments when he had escorted him thither, he remained 
before him weighing his white hat in both hands by the 
brim, and twitching his head and nose (both of which 
had been many times broken, and but indifferently re- 
paired), with an air of decided disrespect. 

His patron being much engaged with his own thoughts, 
did not observe this for some time, nor indeed until the 
Chicken, determined not to be overlooked, had made 


223 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth, to at- 
tract attention. 

“ Now master,” said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, 
at length, caught Mr. Toots’s eye, “ I want to know 
whether this here gammon is to finish it, or whether 
you’re a-going in to win ? ” 

“ Chicken,” returned Mr. Toots, u explain yourself.” 

“Why then, here’s all about it, master,” said the 
Chicken. “ I a’n’t a cove to chuck a word away. 
Here’s wot it is. Are any on ’em to be doubled up?” 

When the Chicken put this question he dropped his 
hat, made a dodge and a feint with his left hand, hit a 
supposed enemy a violent blow with his right, shook his 
head smartly, and recovered himself. 

“ Come master,” said the Chicken. “ Is it to be gam- 
mon or pluck ? Which ? ” 

“ Chicken,” returned Mr. Toots, “ your expressions 
are coarse, and your meaning is obscure.” 

“ Why, then, I tell you what, master,” said the 
Chicken. “ This is where it is. It’s mean.” 

“ What is mean, Chicken ? ” asked Mr. Toots. 

“ It is,” said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation 
of his broken nose. “ There ! Now, master ! Wot ! 
Wen you could go and blow on this here match to the 
stiff ’un ; ” by which depreciatory appellation it has been 
since supposed that the Game One intended to signify 
Mr. Dombey ; “ and when you could knock the winner 
and all the kit of ’em dead out of wind and time, are you 
going to give in ? To give in ? ” said the Chicken, with 
contemptuous emphasis. “ Wy, it’s mean ! ” 

“ Chicken, ’ said Mr. Toots, severely, “ you’re a per- 
fect vulture ! Your sentiments are atrocious.” 

“ My sentiments is game and fancy, master,” returned 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


229 


the Chicken. “That’s wot my sentiments is. I can’t 
abear a meanness. I’m afore the public, I’m to be heerd 
on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov’ner o’ 
mine mustn’t go and do what’s mean. Wy, it’s mean,” 
said the Chicken, with increased expression. “That’s 
where it is. It’s mean.” 

“ Chicken ! ” said Mr. Toots, “ you disgust me.” 

“Master,” returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, 
“ there’s a pair on us, then. Come ! Here’s a offer ! 
You’ve spoke to me more than once’t or twice’t about 
the public line. Never mind ! Give me a fi’typunnote 
to-morrow, and let me go.” 

“ Chicken,” returned Mr. Toots, “ after the odious sen- 
timents you have expressed, I shall be glad to part ou 
such terms.” 

“ Done then,” said the Chicken. “ It’s a bargin. This 
here conduct of yourn, won’t suit my book, master. Wy 
it’s mean,” said the Chicken ; who seemed equally un- 
able to get beyond that point, and to stop short of it. 
“ That’s were it is ! it’s mean ! ” 

So Mr. Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this 
incompatibility of moral perception ; and Mr. Toots 
lying down to sleep, dreamed happily of Florence, who 
had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of 
her maiden life, and sent him her dear love. 


230 


DOM13EY AND SON. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

ANOTHER WEDDING. 

Mr. Sownds the beadle, and Mrs. Miff the pew- 
opener, are early at their posts in the fine church where 
Mr. Dombey was married. A yellow-laced old gentle- 
man from India, is going to take unto himself a young wife 
this morning, and six carriages full of company are ex- 
pected, and Mrs. Miff has been informed that the yellow- 
faced old gentleman could pave the road to church with 
diamonds and hardly miss them. 

The nuptial benediction is to be a superior one, pro- 
ceeding from a very reverend, a dean, and the lady is to 
be given away, as an extraordinary present, by somebody 
who comes express from the Horse Guards. 

Mrs. Miff is more intolerant of common people this 
morning, than she generally is ; and she has always 
strong opinions on that subject, for it is associated with 
free sittings. Mrs. Miff is not a student of political 
economy (she thinks the science is connected with dis- 
senters ; “Baptists or Wesleyans, or some o’ them,” she 
says), but she can never understand what business your 
common folks have to be married. “ Drat ’em,” says Mrs 
Miff, “ you read the same things over ’em and instead of 
sovereigns get sixpences ! ” 

Mr. Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs. Miff 
— but then he is not a pew-opener. “ It must be done. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


231 


ma’am,” lie says. “ We must marry em. We must 
have our national schools to walk at the head i>f, and we 
must have our standing armies. We must marry ’em, 
ma’am,” says Mr. Sownds, “ and keep the country 
going.” 

Mr. Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs. Miff is 
dusting in the church, when a young couple, plainly 
dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet of Mrs. Miff is 
sharply turned towards them, for she espies in this early 
visit indications of a runaway match. But they don’t 
want to be married — “ Only.” says the gentleman, “ to 
walk round the church.” And as he slips a genteel 
compliment into the palm of Mrs. Miff, her vinegary 
face relaxes, and her mortified bonnet and her spare dry 
figure dip and crackle. 

Mrs. Miff resumes her dusting and plumps up her 
cushions — for the yellow-fa<fed old gentleman is reported 
to have tender knees — but keeps her glazed pew-open- 
ing eye on the young couple who are walking round the 
church. “ Ahem,” coughs Mrs. Miff, whose cough is 
drier than the hay in any hassock in her charge, “ you’ll 
come to us one of these mornings, my dears, unless I’m 
much mistaken ! ” 

They are looking at a tablet on the wall, erected to 
the memory of some one dead. They are a long way 
off from Mrs. Miff, but Mrs. Miff can see with half an 
eye how she is leaning on his arm, and how his head is 
bent down over her. “ Well, well,” says Mrs. Miff, 
‘you might do worse. For you’re a tidy pair!” 

There is nothing personal in Mrs. Miff’s remark. 
She merely speaks of stock in trade. She is hardly 
more curious in couples than in coffins. She is such a 
6pare, straight, dry old lady — such a pew of a woman 


232 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


— that you should find as many individua. sympathies 
in a chip. Mr. Sownds, now, who is fleshy, and has 
scarlet in his coat, is of a different temperament. He 
says, as they stand upon the steps watching the young 
couple away, that she has a pretty figure, hasn’t she, and 
as well as he could see (for she held her head down 
coming out), an uncommon pretty face. “ Altogether, 
Mrs. Miff,” says Mr. Sownds with a relish, u she is what 
you may call a rosebud.” 

Mrs. Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified 
bonnet ; but approves of this so little, that she inwardly 
resolves she wouldn’t be the wife of Mr. Sownds for any 
money he could give her, beadle as he is. 

And what are the young people saying as they leave 
the church, and go out at the gate ? 

“ Dear Walter, thank you ! I can go away now, 
happy.” • 

“ And when we come back, Florence, we will come 
and see his grave again.” 

Florence lifts her eyes, so bright with tears, to his 
kind face ; and clasps her disengaged hand on that other 
modest little hand which clasps his arm. 

“ It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost 
empty yet. Let us walk.” 

“ But you will be so tired, my love.” 

“ Oh no ! I was very tired the first time that we ever 
walked together, but I shall not be so to-day.” 

And thus — not much changed — she, as innocent and 
earnest-hearted — he, as frank, as hopeful, and more 
proud of her — Florence and Walter, on their bridal 
morning, walk through the streets together. 

Not even in that childish walk of long ago, were they 
so far removed from all the world about them as to-day. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


233 


The childish feet of long ago, did not tread such en- 
chanted ground as theirs do now. The confidence and 
love of children may be given many times, and will 
spring up in many places ; but the woman’s heart of 
Florence, with its undivided treasure, can be yielded 
only once, and under slight or change, can only droop 
and die. 

They take the streets that are the quietest, and do not 
go near that in which her old home stands. It is a fair, 
warm summer morning, and the sun shines on them, as 
they walk towards the darkening mist that overspreads 
tiie city. Riches are uncovering in shops ; jewels, gold, 
and silver flash in the goldsmiths’ sunny windows ; and 
great houses cast a stately shade upon them as they pass. 
But through the light, and through the shade, they go on 
lovingly together, lost to everything around ; thinking of 
no other riches, and no prouder home, than they have 
now in one another. 

Gradually they come into the darker, narrower streets, 
where the sun, now yellow, and now red, is seen through 
the mist, only at street corners, and in small open spaces 
where there is a tree, or one of the innumerable churches, 
or a paved way and a flight of steps, or a curious little 
patch of garden, or a burying-ground, where the few 
tombs and tombstones are almost black. Lovingly and 
trustfully, through all the narrow yards and alleys and 
the shady streets, Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to 
be his wife. 

Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that 
their church is very near. They pass a few great stacks 
of warehouses, with wagons at the doors, and busy car- 
men stopping up the way — but Florence does not see 
or hear them — and then the air is quiet, and the day is 


234 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


darkened, and she is trembling in a church which has a 
strange smell like a cellar. 

The shabby little old man, ringer of the disappointed 
bell, is standing in the porch, and has put his hat in the 
font — for he is quite at home there, being sexton. He 
ushers them into an old, brown, panelled, dusty vestry, 
like a corner cupboard with the shelves taken out ; where 
the wormy registers diffuse a smell like faded snuff, which 
has set the tearful Nipper sneezing. 

Youthful, and how beautiful, the young bride looks, in 
this old dusty place, with no kindred object near her but 
her husband. There is a dusty old clerk, who keeps a 
sort of evaporated news-shop underneath an archway 
opposite, behind a perfect fortification of posts. There 
is a dusty old pew-opener who only keeps herself, and 
finds that quite enough to do. There is a dusty old 
beadle (these are Mr. Toots’s beadle and pew-opener 
of last Sunday), who has something to do with a Wor- 
shipful Company who have got a Hall in the next yard, 
with a stained-glass window in it that no mortal ever 
saw. There are dusty wooden ledges and cornices poked 
in and out over the altar, and over the screen and round 
the gallery, and over the inscription about what the 
Master and Wardens of the Worshipful Company did 
in one thousand six hundred and ninety-four. There are 
dusty old sounding-boards over the pulpit and reading- 
desk, looking like lids to be let down on the cfBciating 
ministers, in case of their giving offence. There is every 
possible provision for the accommodation of dust, except 
in the church-yard, where the facilities in that respect 
are very limited. 

The captain, Uncle Sol, and Mr. Toots, are come ; the 
clergyman is putting on his surplice in the vestry, while 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


235 


the clerk walks round him, blowing the dust off it ; and 
the bride and bridegroom stand before the altar. There 
is no bridesmaid, unless Susan Nipper is one ; and no 
better father than Captain Cuttle. A man with a wooden 
leg, chewing a faint apple and carrying a blue bag in his 
hand, looks in to see what is going on ; but finding it 
nothing entertaining, stumps off again, and pegs his way 
among the echoes out of doors. 

No gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, 
kneeling at the altar with her timid head bowed down. 
The morning luminary is built out, and don’t shine there. 
There is a meagre tree outside, where the sparrows are 
chirping a little ; and there is a blackbird in an eyelet- 
hole of sun in a dyer’s garret, over against the window, 
who whistles loudly whilst the service is performing ; 
and there is the man with the wooden leg stumping 
away. The amens of the dusty clerk appear, like Mac- 
beth’s, to stick in his throat a little ; but Captain Cuttle 
helps him out, and does it with so much good-will that 
he interpolates three entirely new responses of that word, 
never introduced into the service before. 

They are married, and have signed their names in one 
of the old sneezy registers, and the clergyman’s surplice 
is restored to the dust, and the clergyman is gone home. 
In a dark corner of the dark church, Florence has turned 
to Susan Nipper, and is weeping in her arms. Mr. 
Toots’s eyes are red. The captain lubricates his nose. 
Uncle Sol has pulled down his spectacles from his fore- 
head, and walked out to the door. 

“ God bless you, Susan ; dearest Susan ! If you ever 
can bear witness to the love I have for Walter, and the 
reason that I have to love him, do it for his sake. Good- 
by ! Good-by ! ” 


236 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


They have thought it better not to go back to the 
Midshipman, but to part so ; a coach is waiting for them, 
near at hand. 

Miss Nipper cannot speak ; she only sobs and chokes, 
and hugs her mistress. Mr. Toots advances, urges her 
to cheer up, and takes charge of her. Florence gives 
him her hand — gives him, in the fulness of her heart, 
her lips — kisses Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and is 
borne away by her young husband. 

But Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away 
with a mournful recollection of her. She had meant to 
be so different, that she reproaches herself bitterly. In- 
tent on making one last effort to redeem her character, 
she breaks from Mr. Toots and runs away to find the 
coach, and show a parting smile. The captain, divining 
her object, sets off after her ; for he feels it his duty also, 
to dismiss them with a cheer, if possible. Uncle Sol and 
Mr. Toots are left behind together, outside the church, to 
wait for them. 

The coach is gone, but the street is steep, and narrow, 
and blocked up, and Susan can see it at a stand-still in 
the distance, she is sure. Captain Cuttle follows her as she 
flies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a general 
signal, which may attract the right coach and may not. 

Susan outstrips the captain, and comes up with it. 
She looks in at the window, sees Walter, with the 
gentle face beside him, and claps her hands and screams : 

“ Miss Floy, my darling ! look at me ! We are all so 
happy now, dear ! One more good-by, my precious, one 
more ! ” 

How Susan does it, she don’t know, but she reaches to 
the window, kisses her, and has her arms about her neck 
in a moment. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


237 


“We are all so — so happy now, my dear Miss 
Floy ! ” says Susan, with a suspicious catching in her 
breath. “ You, you won’t be angry with me, now 
Now will you ? ” 

“ Angry, Susan ! ” 

“ No, no ; I am sure you won’t. I say you won’t, my 
pet, my dearest ! ” exclaims Susan ; “ arid here’s the cap- 
tain, too — your friend the captain, you know — to say 
good-by once more ! ” 

“ Hooroar, my Heart’s Delight ! ” vociferates the cap- 
tain, with a countenance of strong emotion. “ Hooroar, 
Wal’r my lad ! Hooroar ! Hooroar ! ” 

What with the young husband at one window, and the 
young wife at the other ; the captain hanging on at this 
door, and Susan Nipper holding fast by that ; the coach 
obliged to go on whether it will or no, and all the other 
carts and coaches turbulent because it hesitates ; there 
never was so much confusion on four wheels. But Susan 
Nipper gallantly maintains her point. She keeps a smil- 
ing face upon her mistress, smiling through her tears, 
until the last. Even when she is left behind, the captain 
continues to appear and disappear at the door crying 
“ Hooroar, my lad ! Hooroar, my Heart’s Delight ! ” 
with his shirt collar in a violent state of agitation, until 
it is hopeless to attempt to keep up with the coach any 
longer. Finally, when the coach is gone, Susan Nipper 
being rejoined by the captain, falls into a state of insensi- 
bility, and is taken into a baker’s shop to recover. 

Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots wait patiently in the church- 
yard, sitting on the coping-stone of the railings, until 
Captain Cuttle and Susan come back. Neither being at 
all desirous to speak, or to be spoken to, they are excel- 
lent company, and quite satisfied. When they all arrive 


238 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


again at the little Midshipman, and sit down to breakfast, 
nobody can touch a morsel. Captain Cutlle makes a 
feint of being voracious about toast, but gives it up as 
a swindle. Mr. Toots says, after breakfast, he will come 
back in the evening ; and goes wandering about the town 
all day, w T ith a vague sensation upon him as if he hadn’t 
been to bed for a fortnight. 

There is a strange charm in the house, and in the 
room, in which they have been used to be together, and 
out of which so much is gone. It aggravates, and yet 
it soothes, the sorrow of the separation. Mr. Toots tells 
Susan Nipper when, he comes at night, that he hasn’t 
been so wretched all day long, and yet he likes it. He 
confides in Susan Nipper, being alone with her, and tells 
her what his feelings were when she gave him that can- 
did opinion as to the probability of Miss Dombey’s ever 
loving him. In the vein of confidence engendered by 
these common recollections, and their tears, Mr. Toots 
proposes that they shall go out together, and buy some- 
thing for supper. Miss Nipper assenting, they buy a 
good many little things ; and, with the aid of Mrs. Rich- 
ards, set the supper out quite showily before the captain 
and old Sol came home. 

The captain and old Sol have been on board the 
ship, and have established Di there, and have seen the 
chests put aboard. They have much to tell about the 
popularity of Walter, and the comforts he will have about 
him, and the quiet way in which it seems he has been 
working early and late, to make his cabin what the 
captain calls “ a picter,” to surprise his little wife. “ A 
admiral’s cabin, mind you,” says the captain, “ a’n’t more 
trim.” 

But one of the captain’s chief delights is, that he 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


239 


knows the big watch, and the sugar-tongs, and tea- 
spoons, are on board ; and again and again he mur- 
murs to himself, “ Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, you never 
shaped a better course in your life, than when you 
made that there little property over jintly. You see 
how the land bore, Ed’ard,” . says the captain, “ and it 
does you credit, my lad.” 

The old Instrument-maker is more distraught and 
misty than he used to be, and takes the marriage and 
the parting very much to heart. But he is greatly 
comforted by having his old ally, Ned Cuttle, at his side ; 
and he sits down to supper with a grateful and con- 
tented face. 

“My boy has been preserved and thrives,” says old 
Sol Gills, rubbing his hands. “ What right have I to 
be otherwise than thankful and happy ! ” 

The captain, who has not yet taken his seat at the 
table, but who has been fidgeting about for some time, 
and now stands hesitating in his place, looks doubtfully 
at Mr. Gills, and says : 

“ Sol ! There’s the last bottle of the old Madeira 
down below. Would you wish to have it up to-night, 
my boy, and drink to Wal’r and his wife ? ” 

The Instrument-maker, looking wistfully at the cap- 
tain, puts his hand into the breast-pocket of his coffee- 
colored coat, brings forth his pocket-book, and takes a 
letter out. 

“To Mr. Dombey,” says the old man. “From Wal- 
ter. To be sent in three weeks’ time. I’ll read it.” 

“ Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone 
with me upon a distant voyage. To be devoted to her 
is to have no claim on her or you, but God knows that 
T am. 


240 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


44 4 Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have 
yet, without remorse, united her to the uncertainties 
and dangers of my life, I will not say to you. You 
know why, and you are her father. 

“ 4 Do not reproach her. She has never reproached 
you. 

44 4 1 do not think or hope that you will ever forgive 
me. There is nothing I expect less. But if an hour 
should come when it will comfort you to believe that 
Florence has some one ever near her, the great charge 
of whose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sor- 
row, I solemnly assure you, you may, in that hour, rest 
in that belief.’ ” 

Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket- 
book, and puts back his pocket-book in his coat. 

44 We won’t drink the last bottle of the old Madeira 
yet, Ned,” says the old man thoughtfully. 44 Not yet.” 

44 Not yet,” assents the captain. 44 No. Not yet.” 

Susan and Mr. Toots are of the same opinion. After 
a silence they all sit down to supper, and drink to the 
young husband and wife in something else ; and the last 
bottle of the old Madeira still remains among its dust 
and cobwebs, undisturbed. 

A few days have elapsed, and a stately ship is out at 
sea, spreading its white wings to the favoring wind. 

Upon the deck, image to the roughest man on board 
of something that is graceful, beautiful, and harmless — 
something that it is good and pleasant to have there, 
and that should make the voyage prosperous — is Flor- 
ence. It is night, and she and Walter sit alone, watch- 
ing the solemn path of light upon the sea between them 
and the moon. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


241 


At length she cannot see it plainly, for the tears that 
fill her eyes ; and then she lays her head down on his 
breast, and puts her arms around his neck, saying, “ Oh 
Walter, dearest love, I am so happy ! ” 

Her husband holds her to his heart, and they are 
very quiet, and the stately ship goes on serenely. 

“ As I hear the sea,” says Florence, “ and sit watch- 
ing it, it brings so many days into my mind. It makes 
me think so much ” — 

“ Of Paul, my love. I know it does.” 

Of Paul and Walter. And the voices in the waves 
are always whispering to Florence, in their ceaseless 
murmuring, of love — of love, eternal and illimitable, 
not bounded by the confines of this world, or by the 
end of time, but ranging still, beyond the sea, beyond 
the sky, to the invisible country far away ! 


16 


VOL- IV. 


242 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

AFTER A LAPSE. 

The sea had ebbed and flowed, through a whole year* 
Through a whole year, the winds and clouds had come 
and gone ; the ceaseless work of Time had been per- 
formed, in storm and sunshine. Through a whole year 
the tides of human chance and change had set in their 
allotted courses. Through a whole year, the famous 
House of Dombey and Son had fought a fight for life, 
against cross accidents, doubtful rumors, unsuccessful 
ventures, unpropitious times, and most of all, against 
the infatuation of its head, who would not contract its 
enterprises by a hair’s-breadth, and would not listen to 
a word of warning that the ship he strained so hard 
against the storm, was weak, and could not bear it. 

The year was out, and the great House was down. 

One summer afternoon ; a year, wanting some odd 
days, after the marriage in the City church ; there was 
a buzz and whisper upon ’Change of a great failure. 
A certain cold proud man, well known there, was not 
there, nor was he represented there. Next day it was 
noised abroad that Dombey and Son had stopped, and 
next night there was a list of bankrupts published, 
headed by that name. 

The world was very busy now, in sooth, and had a 
deal to say. It was an innocently credulous and a much 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


243 


ill-used world. It was a world in which there was no 
other sort of bankruptcy whatever. There were no con- 
spicuous people in it, trading far and wide on rotten 
banks of religion, patriotism, virtue, honor. There was 
no amount worth mentioning of mere paper in circula- 
tion, on which anybody lived pretty handsomely, promis 
ing to pay great sums of goodness with no effects. There 
were no shortcomings anywhere, in anything but money. 
The world was very angry indeed ; and the people es- 
pecially, who, in a worse world, might have been sup- 
posed to be bankrupt traders themselves in shows and 
pretences, were observed to be mightily indignant. 

Here was a new inducement to dissipation, presented 
to that sport of circumstances, Mr. Perch the messenger! 
It was apparently the fate of Mr. Perch to be always 
waking up, and finding himself famous. He had but 
yesterday, as one might say, subsided into private life 
from the celebrity of the elopement and the events that 
followed it ; and now he was made a more important 
man than ever, by the bankruptcy. Gliding from his 
bracket in the outer office where he now sat, watch- 
ing the strange faces of accountants and others, who 
quickly superseded nearly all the old clerks, Mr. Perch 
had but to show himself in the court outside, or, at 
farthest, in the bar of the King’s Arms, to be asked a 
multitude of questions, almost certain to include that in- 
teresting question, what would he take to drink ? Then 
would Mr. Perch descant upon the hours of acute un- 
easiness he and Mrs. Perch had suffered out at Balls 
Pond, when they first suspected “ things was going 
wrong.” Then would Mr. Perch relate to gaping 
listeners, in a low voice, as if the corpse of the deceased 
House were lying unburied in the next room, how Mrs. 


244 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Perch had first come to surmise that things was going 
wrong by hearing him (Perch) moaning in his sleep, 
“ twelve and ninepence in the pound, twelve and nine- 
pence in the pound ! ” Which act of somnambulism he 
supposed to have originated in the impression made 
upon him by the change in Mr. Dombey’s face. Then 
would he inform them how he had once said, “ Might I 
make so bold as ask, sir, are you unhappy in your 
mind ? ” and how Mr. Dombey had replied, “ My faith- 
ful Perch — but no, it cannot be ! ” and with that had 
struck his hand upon his forehead, and said, “ Leave me, 
Perch ! ” Then, in short, would Mr. Perch, a victim to 
his position, tell all manner of lies ; affecting himself to 
tears by those that were of a moving nature, and really 
believing that the inventions of yesterday had, on repeti- 
tion, a sort of truth about them to-day. 

Mr. Perch always closed these conferences by meek- 
ly remarking, That, of course, whatever his suspicions 
might have been, (as if he had ever had any !) it wasn’t 
for him to betray his trust — was it? Which sentiment 
(there never being any creditors present) was received 
as doing great honor to his feelings. Thus, he generally 
brought away a soothed conscience and left an agreeable 
impression behind him, when he returned to his bracket : 
again to sit watching the strange faces of the accountants 
and others, making so free with the great mysteries, the 
Books ; or now r and then to go on tiptoe into Mr. Dom- 
bey’s empty room, and stir the fire ; or to take an airing 
at the door, and have a little more doleful chat with any 
straggler whom he knew ; or to propitiate, with various 
small attentions, the head accountant : from whom Mr. 
Perch had expectations of a messengership in a Fire Of- 
fice, when the affairs of the House should be wound up. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


245 


To Major Bagstock, the bankruptcy was quite a calam- 
ity. The major was not a sympathetic character — his 
attention being wholly concentrated on J. B. — nor was 
he a man subject to lively emotions, except in the phys- 
ical regards of gasping and choking. But he had so 
paraded his friend Dombey at the club ; had so flour- 
ished him at the heads of the members in general, and so 
put them down by continual assertion of his riches ; that 
the club, being but human, was delighted to retort upon 
the major, by asking him, with a show of great concern, 
whether this tremendous smash had been at all expected, 
and how ftis friend Dombey bore it. To such questions, 
the major, waxing very purple, would reply that it was a 
bad world, sir, altogether ; that Joey knew a thing or 
two, but had been done, sir, done like an infant ; that if 
^ou had foretold this, sir, to J. Bagstock, when he went 
abroad with Dombey and was chasing that vagabond up 
and down France, J. Bagstock would have pooh-pooh’d 
you — would have pooh-pooh’d you, sir, by the Lord ! 
That Joe had been deceived, sir, taken in, hoodwinked, 
blindfolded, but was broad awake again and staring ; in- 
somuch, sir, that if Joe’s father were to rise up from the 
grave to-morrow, he wouldn’t trust the old blade with a 
penny piece, but would tell him that his son Josh was 
too old a soldier to be done again, sir. That he was a 
suspicious, crabbed, cranky, used-up, J. B. infidel, sir; 
and that if it were consistent with the dignity of a rough 
and tough old major, of the old school, who had had the 
honor of being personally known to, and commended by, 
their late Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and 
York, to retire to a tub and live in it, by Gad ! sir, he’d 
have a tub in Pall Mall to-morrow, to show his contempt 
for mankind ! 


246 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


Of all this, and many variations of the same tune, the 
major would deliver himself with so many apoplectic 
symptoms, such rollings of his head, and such violent 
growls of ill-usage and resentment, that the younger 
members of the club surmised he had invested money in 
his friend Dombey’s House, and lost it; though the 
older soldiers and deeper dogs, who knew Joe better, 
wouldn’t hear of such a thing. The unfortunate native, 
expressing no opinion, suffered dreadfully ; not merely 
in his moral feelings, which were regularly fusilladed by 
the major every hour in the day, and riddled through 
and through, but in his sensitiveness to bodily knocks 
and bumps, which was kept continually on the stretch. 
For six entire weeks after the bankruptcy, this misera- 
ble foreigner lived in a rainy season of bootjacks and 
brushes. 

Mrs. Chick had three ideas upon the subject of the 
terrible reverse. The first was that she could not 
understand it. The second, that her brother had not 
made an effort. The third, that if she had been in- 
vited to dinner on the day of that first party, it never 
would have happened ; and that she had said so, at the 
time. 

Nobody’s opinion stayed the misfortune, lightened it, 
or made it heavier. It was understood that the affairs 
of the House were to be wound up as they best could 
be; that Mr. Dombey freely resigned ererything he had, 
and asked for no favor from any one. That any re- 
sumption of the business was out of the question, as he 
would listen to no friendly negotiation having that com- 
promise in view ; that he had relinquished every post of 
trust or distinction he had held, as a man respected 
among merchants; that he was dying, according to some; 


DOMBEY AND SLN. 


247 


that he was going melancholy mad, according to others ; 
that he was a broken man, according to all. 

The clerks dispersed after holding a little dinner of 
condolence among themselves, which was enlivened by 
comic singing, and went off admirably. Some took 
places abroad, and some engaged in other houses at 
home ; some looked up relations in the country, for 
whom they suddenly remembered they had a particular 
affection, and some advertised for employment in the 
newspapers : Mr. Perch alone remained of all the late 
establishment, sitting on his bracket looking at the ac- 
countants, or starting off it, to propitiate the head ac- 
countant, who was to get him into the Fire Office. The 
counting-house soon got to be dirty and neglected. The 
principal slipper and dogs’ collar seller, at the corner of 
the court, would have doubted the propriety of throwing 
up his forefinger to the brim of his hat, any more, if Mr. 
Dombey had appeared there now ; and the ticket porter, 
with his hands under his white apron, moralized good 
sound morality about ambition, which (he observed) was 
not, in his opinion, made to rhyme to perdition, for 
nothing. 

Mr. Morfin the hazel-eyed bachelor, with the hair and 
whiskers sprinkled with gray, was perhaps the only per- 
son within the atmosphere of the House — its head, of 
course, excepted — who was heartily and deeply affected 
by the disaster that had befallen it. He had treated 
Mr. Dombey with due respect and deference through 
many years, but he had never disguised his natural 
character, or meanly truckled to him, or pampered his 
master passion for the advancement of his own purposes. 
He had, therefore, no self-disrespect to avenge ; no long- 
tighte'ied springs to release with a quick recoil. He 


248 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


worked early and late to unravel whatever was compli- 
cated or difficult in the records of the transactions of the 
House; was always in attendance to explain whatever 
required explanation ; sat in his old room sometimes 
very late at night, studying points by his mastery of 
which he could spare Mr. Dombey the pain of being 
personally referred to ; and then would go home to 
Islington, and calm his mind by producing the most 
dismal and forlorn sounds out of his violoncello before 
going to bed. 

He was solacing himself with this melodious grumbler 
one evening, and, having been much dispirited by the 
proceedings of the day, was scraping consolation out of 
its deepest notes, when his landlady (who was for- 
tunately deaf, and had no other consciousness of these 
performances than a sensation of something rumbling 
in her bones) announced a lady. 

“ In mourning,” she said. 

The violoncello stopped immediately ; and the per- 
former, laying it on a sofa with great tenderness and 
care, made a sign that the lady was to come in. He 
followed directly, and met Harriet Carker on the stair. 

“ Alone ! ” he said, “ and John here this morning ! Is 
there anything the matter, my dear ? But no,” he added, 
“your face tells quite another story.” 

“ I am afraid it is a selfish revelation that you see 
there, then,” she answered. 

“ It is a very pleasant one,” said he ; “ and, if selfish, 
a novelty too, worth seeing in you. But I don’t believe 
that.” 

He had placed a chair for her by this time, and sat 
down opposite ; the violoncello lying snugly on the sofa 
between them. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


249 


“ You will not be surprised at my toming alone, or at 
John’s not having told you I was coming,” said Harriet ; 
“ and you will believe that, when I tell you why I have 
come. May I do so now ? ” 

“ You can do nothing better.” 

“ You were not busy ? ” 

He pointed to the violoncello lying on the sofa, and 
said, “ I have been, all day. Here’s my witness. I 
have been confiding all my cares to it. I wish I had 
none but my own to tell.” 

“ Is the House at an end ? ” said Harriet, earnestly. 

“ Completely at an end.” 

“ Will it never be resumed ? ” 

« Never.” 

The bright expression of her face was not overshad- 
owed as her lips silently repeated the word. He seemed 
to observe this with some little involuntary surprise : and 
said again : 

“ Never. You remember what I told you. It has 
been, all along, impossible to convince him ; impossible 
to reason with him ; sometimes, impossible even to ap- 
proach him. The worst has happened ; and the House 
has fallen, never to be built up any more.” 

“ And Mr. Dombey, is he personally ruined ? ” 

“ Ruined.” 

“ Will he have no private fortune left? Nothing ? w 

A certain eagerness in her voice, and something that 
was almost joyful in her look, seemed to surprise him 
more and more ; to disappoint him too, and jar discord- 
antly against his own emotions. He drummed with the 
fingers of one hand on the table, looking wistfully at her, 
and shaking his head, said,, after a pause : 

w The extent of Mr. Dombey’s resources is not accu 


250 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


rately within my knowledge ; but though they are doubt- 
less very large, his obligations are enormous. He is a 
gentleman of high honor and integrity. Any man in 
his position could, and many a man in his position would, 
have saved himself, by making terms which would have 
very slightly, almost insensibly, increased the losses of 
those who had had dealings with him, and left him a 
remnant to live upon. But he is resolved on payment 
to the last farthing of his means. His own words are, 
that they will clear, or nearly clear, the House, and that 
no one can lose much. Ah Miss Harriet, it would do 
us no harm to remember oftener than we do, that vices 
are sometimes only virtues carried to excess ! His pride 
shows well in this.” 

She heard him with little or no change in her expres- 
sion, and with a divided attention that showed her to be 
busy with something in her own mind. When he was 
silent, she asked him hurriedly : 

“ 1 fave you seen him lately ? ” 

“ Ko one sees him. When this crisis of his affairs 
renders it necessary for him to come out of his house, 
he comes out for the occasion, and again goes home, and 
shuts himself up, and will see no one. He has written 
me a letter, acknowledging our past connection in higher 
terms than it deserved, and parting from me. I am del- 
icate of obtruding myself upon him now, never having 
had much intercourse with him in better times ; but I 
have tried to do so. I have written, gone there, en- 
treated. Quite in vain.” 

He watched her, as in the hope that she would testify 
some greater concern than she had yet shown ; and spoke 
gravely and feelingly, as if to impress her the more ; but 
there was no change in her. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


251 


“Well, well, Miss Harriet,” he said, with a disappointed 
air, “ this is not to the purpose. You have not come 
here to hear this. Some other and pleasanter theme is 
in your mind. Let it be in mine, too, and we shall talk 
upon more equal terms. Come ! ” 

“ No, it is the same theme,” returned Harriet, with 
frank and quick surprise. “Is it not likely that it should 
be ? Is it not natural that John and I should have been 
thinking and speaking very much of late of these great 
changes ? Mr. Dombey, whom he served so many years 
— you know upon what terms — reduced, as you describe; 
and we quite rich ! ” 

Good, true face, as that face of hers was, and pleasant 
as it had been to him, Mr. Morfin, the hazel-eyed bach- 
elor, since the first time he had ever looked upon it, 
it pleased him less at that moment, lighted with a 
ray of exultation, than it had ever pleased him be- 
fore. 

“ I need not remind you,” said Harriet, casting down 
her eyes upon her black dress, “ through what means 
our circumstances changed. You have not forgotten that 
our brother James, upon that dreadful day, left no will, 
no relations but ourselves.” 

The face was pleasanter to him now, though it was 
pale and melancholy, than it had been a moment since. 
He seemed to breathe more cheerily. 

“ You know,” she said, “ our history, the history of 
both my brothers, in connection with the unfortunate, 
unhappy gentleman, of whom you have spoken so truly. 
You know how few our wants are — John’s and mine — • 
and what little use we have for money, after the life we 
have led together for so many years ; and now that he 
is earning an income that is ample for us, through your 


252 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


kindness. You are not unprepared to hear what favor 
I have come to ask of you ? ” 

“ I hardly know. I was, a minute ago. Now, I think, 
I am not.” 

“ Of my dead brother, I say nothing. If the dead 
know what we do — but you understand me. Of my 
living brother I could say much : but what need I say 
more, than that this act of duty, in which I have come 
to ask your indispensable assistance, is his own, and that 
he cannot rest until it is performed ! ” 

She raised her eyes again ; and the light of exultation 
in her face began to appear beautiful, in the observant 
eyes that watched her. 

u Dear sir,” she went on to say, “ it must be done 
very quietly and secretly. Your experience and knowl- 
edge will point out a way of doing it. Mr. Dombey may, 
perhaps, be led to believe that it is something saved, un- 
expectedly, from the wreck of his fortunes ; or that it is 
a voluntary tribute to his honorable and upright charac- 
ter, from some of those with whom he has had great 
dealings ; or that it is some old lost debt repaid. There 
must be many ways of doing it. I know you will choose 
the best. The favor I have come to ask is, that you 
will do it for us in your own kind, generous, considerate 
manner. That you will never speak of it to John, whose 
chief happiness in this act of restitution is to do it se- 
cretly, unknown, and unapproved of ; that only a very 
small part of the inheritance may be reserved to us, until 
Mr. Dombey shall have possessed the interest of the rest 
for the remainder of his life ; that you will keep our se- 
cret, faithfully — but that I am sure you will ; and that, 
from this time, it may seldom be whispered, even between 
you and me, but may live in my thoughts only as a new 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


255 


reason for thankfulness to Heaven, and joy and pride in 
my brother.” 

Such a look of exultation there may be on Angels 
faces, when the one repentant sinner enters heaven, 
among ninety-nine just men. It was not dimmed or 
tarnished by the joyful tears that filled her eyes, but was 
the brighter for them. 

“ My dear Harriet,” said Mr. Morfin, after a silence, 
“ I w r as not prepared for this. Do I understand you that 
you wish to make your own part in the inheritance avail- 
able for your good purpose, as well as John’s ? ” 

u Oh yes,” she returned. “ When we have shared 
everything together for so long a time, and have had no 
care, hope, or purpose apart, could I bear to be excluded 
from my share in this ? May I not urge a claim to be 
my brother’s partner and companion to the last ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid that I should dispute it ! ” he re- 
plied. 

“We may rely on your friendly help?” she said. “I 
knew we might ! ” 

“ I should be a worse man than, — than I hope I am, 
or would willingly believe myself, if I could not give 
you that assurance from my heart and soul. You may, 
implicitly. Upon my honor, I will keep your secret. 
And if it should be found that Mr. Dombey is so re- 
duced as I fear he will be, acting on a determination 
that there seem to be no means of influencing, I will 
assist you to accomplish the design, on which you and 
John are jointly resolved.” 

She gave him her hand, and thanked him with a cor- 
dial, happy face. 

“ Harriet,” he said, detaining it in his. “ To speak to 
you of the worth of any sacrifice that you can make 


254 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


now — above all, of any sacrifice of mere money — • 
would be idle and presumptuous. To put before you 
any appeal to reconsider your purpose or to set narrow 
limits to it, would be, I feel, not less so. I have no 
right to mar the great end of a great history, by any 
obtrusion of my own weak self. I have every right to 
bend my head before what you confide to me, satisfied 
that it comes from a higher and better source of inspi- 
ration than my poor worldly knowledge. I will say 
only this, I am your faithful steward ; and I would 
rather be so, and your chosen friend, than I would be 
anybody in the world, except yourself.’’ 

She thanked him again, cordially, and wished him 
good-night. 

“ Are you going home ? ” he said. “ Let me go with 
you.” 

“ Not to-night. I am not going home now ; I have 
a visit to make alone. Will you come to-morrow ? ” 

“Well, well,” said he, “I’ll come to-morrow. In the 
mean time, I’ll think of this, and how we can best pro- 
ceed. And perhaps you'll think of it, dear Harriet, and 
— and — think of me a little in connection with it.” 

He handed her down to a coach she had in waiting 
at the door ; and if his landlady had not been deaf, she 
would have heard him muttering as he went back up- 
stairs, when the coach had driven oflf, that we were 
creatures of habit, and it was a sorrowful habit to be 
an old bachelor. 

The violoncello lying on the sofa between the two 
chairs, he took it up, without putting away the vacant 
chair, and sat droning on it, and slowly shaking his head 
at the vacant chair, for a long, long time. The expres- 
sion he communicated to the instrument at first, though 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


255 


monstrously pathetic and bland, was nothing to ,he ex- 
pression he communicated to his own face, and bestowed 
upon the empty chair : which was so sincere, that he was 
obliged to have recourse to Captain Cuttle’s remedy more 
than once, and to rub his face with his sleeve. By de- 
grees, however, the violoncello, in unison with his own 
frame of mind, glided melodiously into the Harmonious 
Blacksmith, which he played over and over again, until 
his ruddy and serene face gleamed like true metal on the 
anvil of a veritable blacksmith. In fine, the violoncello 
and the empty chair were the companions of his bachelor- 
hood until nearly midnight ; and when he took his sup- 
per, the violoncello set up on end in the sofa corner, 
big with the latent harmony of a whole foundry full 
of harmonious blacksmiths, seemed to ogle the empty 
chair out of its crooked eyes, with unutterable intel- 
ligence. 

When Harriet left the house, the driver of her hired 
coach, taking a course that was evidently no new one to 
him, went in and out by by-ways, through that part of 
the suburbs, until he arrived at some open ground, where 
there were a few quiet little old houses standing among 
gardens. At the garden-gate of one of these he stopped, 
and Harriet alighted. 

Her gentle ringing at the bell was responded to by a 
dolorous-looking woman, of light complexion, with raised 
eyebrows, and head drooping on one side, who courtesicd 
at sight of her, and conducted her across the garden to 
the house. 

“ How is your patient, nurse, to-night ? ” said Har- 
riet. 

“ In a poor way, miss, I am afraid. Oh how she do 
remind me, sometimes, of my uncle’s Betsey Jane ! ” re- 


256 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


turned the woman of the light complexion, in a sort of 
doleful rapture. 

“ In what respect ? ” asked Harriet. 

“ Miss, in all respects,” replied the other, “ except that 
she’s grown up, and Betsey Jane, when at death’s door, 
was but a child.” 

“ But you have told me she recovered,” observed Har- 
riet mildly ; “ so there is the more reason for hope, Mrs. 
Wickam.” 

“ Ah, miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has 
the spirits to bear it ! ” said Mrs. Wickam, shaking her 
head. “ My own spirits is not equal to it, but I don’t 
owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest ! ” 

“You should try to be more cheerful,” remarked 
Harriet. 

“ Thank you miss, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Wickam 
grimly. “ If I was so inclined, the loneliness of this 
situation — you’ll excuse my speaking so free — would 
put it out of my power, in four-and-twenty hours ; 
but I a’n’t at all. I’d rather not. The little spirits 
that I ever had, I was bereaved of at Brighton some 
few years ago, and I think I feel myself the better 
for it.” 

In truth, this was the very Mrs. Wickam who had 
superseded Mrs. Richards as the nurse of little Paul, 
and who considered herself to have gained the loss in 
question, under the roof of the amiable Pipchin. The 
excellent and thoughtful old system, hallowed by long 
prescription, which has usually picked out from the rest 
of mankind the most dreary and uncomfortable people 
that could possibly be laid hold of, to act as instructors 
of youth, finger-posts to the virtues, matrons, monitors, 
attendants on sick-beds, and the like, had established 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


257 


Mrs. Wickam in very good business as a nurse, and 
had led to her serious qualities being particularly com- 
mended by an admiring and numerous connection. 

Mrs. Wickam, with her eyebrows elevated, and her 
head on one side, lighted the way up-stairs to a clean, 
neat, chamber, opening on another chamber dimly 
lighted, where there was a bed. In the first room, an 
old woman sat mechanically staring out at the open 
window, on the darkness. In the second, stretched 
upon the bed, lay the shadow of a figure that had 
spurned the wind and rain, one wintry night ; hardly 
to be recognized now, but by the long black hair that 
showed so very black against the colorless face, and all 
the white things about it. 

Oh, the strong eyes, and the weak frame ! The eyes 
that turned so eagerly and brightly to the door when 
Harriet came in ; the feeble head that could not raise 
itself, and moved so slowly round upon its pillow ! 

“ Alice ! ” said the visitor’s mild vo ; ce, “ am I late to- 
night ? ” 

“ You always seem late, but are always early.” 

Harriet had sat down by the bedside now, and put 
her hand upon the thin hand lying there. 

“ You are better ? ” 

Mrs. Wickam, standing at the foot of the bed, like a 
disconsolate spectre, most decidedly and forcibly shook 
her head to negative this position. 

“ It matters very little ! ” said Alice, with a faint smile. 
“ Better or worse to-day, is but a day’s difference — 
perhaps not so much.” 

Mrs. Wickam, as a serious character, expressed her 
approval with a groan ; and having made some cold 
dabs at the bottom of the bedclothes, as feeling for the 

VOL. IV. 17 


258 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


patient’s feet and expecting to find them stony, went 
clinking among the medicine bottles on the table, as who 
should say, “ while we are here, let us repeat the mix- 
ture as before.” 

“ No,” said Alice, whispering to her visitor, “ evil 
courses, and remorse, travel, want, and weather, storm 
within, and storm without, have worn my life away. It 
will not last much longer.” 

She drew the hand up as she spoke, and laid her 
face against it. 

“ I lie here, sometimes, thinking I should like to live 
until I had had a little time to show you how grate- 
ful I could be ! It is a weakness, and soon passes. Bet- 
ter for you as it is. Better for me ! ” 

How different her hold upon the hand, to what it had 
been when she took it by the fireside on the bleak winter 
evening ! Scorn, rage, defiance, recklessness, look here ! 
This is the end. 

Mrs. Wickam having clinked sufficiently among the 
bottles, now produced the mixture. Mrs. Wickam looked 
hard at her patient in the act of drinking, screwed her 
mouth up tight, her eyebrows also, and shook her head, 
expressing that tortures shouldn’t make her say it was 
a hopeless case. Mrs. Wickam then sprinkled a little 
cooling-stuff about the room, with the air of a female 
grave-digger, who was strewing ashes on ashes, dust 
on dust — for she was a serious character — and with- 
drew to partake of certain funeral baked meats down- 
stairs. 

“ How long is it,” asked Alice, “ since I went to you 
and told you what I had done, and when you were ad- 
vised it was too late for any one to follow ? ” 

“It is a year and more,” said Harriet. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


259 


“ A year and more,” said Alice, thoughtfully intent 
upon her face. “ Months upon months since you brought 
me here ! ” 

Harriet answered “ Yes.” 

“ Brought me here, by force of gentleness and kind- 
ness. Me ! ” said Alice, shrinking with her face behind 
the hand, “ and made me human by woman’s looks and 
words, and angel’s deeds ! ” 

Harriet bending over her, composed and soothed her. 
By and by Alice lying as before, with the hand against 
her face, asked to have her mother called. 

Harriet called to her more than once ; but the old 
woman was so absorbed looking out at the open window 
on the darkness, that she did not hear. It was not un- 
til Harriet went to her and touched her, that she rose 
up, and came. 

“ Mother,” said Alice, taking the hand again, and fix- 
ing her lustrous eyes lovingly upon her visitor, while 
she merely addressed a motion of her finger to the old 
woman, “ tell her what you know.” 

“ To-night, my deary ? ” 

“ Ay, mother,” answered Alice, faintly and solemnly, 
“ to-night ! ” 

The old woman, whose wits appeared disordered by 
alarm, remorse, or grief, came creeping along the side 
of the bed, opposite to that on which Harriet sat ; and 
kneeling down, so as to bring her withered face upon 
a level with the coverlet, and stretching out her hard, 
so as to touch her daughter’s arm, began : 

“ My handsome gal ” — 

Heaven what a cry was that, with which she stopped 
there, gazing at the poor form lying on the bed ! 

“ Changed, long ago, mother ! Withered, long ago,” 


200 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


eaid Alice, without looking at her. “ Don’t grieve for 
that now.” 

— “ My daughter,” faltered the old woman, “ my gal 
who’ll soon get better, and shame ’em all with her good 
looks.” 

Alice smiled mournfully at Harriet, and fondled her 
hand a little closer, but said nothing. 

“ Who’ll soon get better, I say,” repeated the old 
woman, menacing the vacant air with her shrivelled fist, 
u and who’ll shame ’em all with her good looks — she 
will. I say she will ! she shall ! ” — as if she were in 
passionate contention with some unseen opponent at the 
bedside, who contradicted her — “ my daughter has been 
turned away from, and cast out, but she could boast re- 
lationship to proud folks too, if she chose. Ah ! To 
proud folks ! There’s relationship without your clergy 
and your wedding-rings — they may make it, but they 
can’t break it — and my daughter’s well related. Show 
me Mrs. Dombey, and I’ll show you my Alice’s first 
cousin.” 

Harriet glanced from the old woman to the lustrous 
eyes intent upon her face, and derived corroboration 
from them. 

“ What ! ” cried the old woman, her nodding head 
bridling with a ghastly vanity ; “ Though I am old and 
ugly now, — much older by life and habit than years 
though, — I was once as young as any. Ah ! as pretty 
too, as many ! I was a fresh country wench in my time, 
darling,” stretching out her arm to Harriet, across the 
bed, “ and looked it, too. Down in my country, Mrs. 
Dombey’s father and his brother were the gayest gentle- 
men and the best-liked that come a-visiting from London 
— they have long been dead, ; hough! Lord, Lord, this 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


261 


long while ! The brother, who was my Ally’s father, 
longest of the two.” 

She raised her head a little, and peered at her daugh- 
ter’s face ; as if from the remembrance of her own youth, 
she had flown to the remembrance of her child’s. Then 
suddenly, she laid her face down on the bed, and shut 
her head up in her hands and arms. 

“ They were as like,” said the old woman, without 
looking up, “ as you could see two brothers, so near an 
age — there wasn’t much more than a year between 
them, as I recollect — and if you could have seen my 
gal, as I have seen her once, side by side with the other’s 
daughter, you’d have seen, for all the difference of dress 
and life, that they were like each other. Oh ! is the 
likeness gone, and is it my gal — only my gal — that’s 
to change so ! ” 

“We shall all change, mother, in our turn,” said 
Alice. 

“ Turn ! ” cried the old woman, “ but why not hers as 
soon as my gal’s ! The mother must have changed — - 
she looked as old as me, and full as wrinkled through 
her paint — but she was handsome. What have I done, 
I, what have 1 done worse than her, that only my gal is 
to lie there fading ! ” 

With another of those wild cries, she went running 
out into the room from which she had come ; but imme^ 
diately, in her uncertain mood, returned, and creeping 
up to Harriet, said : 

“ That’s what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That’s 
all. I found it out when I began to ask who she was, 
and all about her, away in Warwickshire there, one sum- 
mer time. Such relations was no good to me, then. 
They wouldn’t have owned me, and had nothing to give 


262 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


me. 1 should have asked ’em, may be, for a little money, 
afterwards, if it hadn’t been for my Alice ; she’d a’rnost 
have killed me, if I had, I think. She was as proud as 
t’other in her way,” said the old woman, touching the 
face of her daughter fearfully, and withdrawing her hand, 
“ for all she’s so quiet now ; but she’ll shame ’em with 
her good looks yet. Ha, ha ! She’ll shame ’em, will my 
handsome daughter ! ” 

Her laugh, as she retreated, was worse than her cry ; 
worse than the burst of imbecile lamentation in which it 
ended ; worse than the doting air with which she sat 
down in her old seat, and stared out at the darkness. 

The eyes of Alice had all this time been fixed on 
Harriet, whose hand she had never released. She said 
now : 

“ I have felt, lying here, that I should like you to 
know this. It might explain, I have thought, something 
that used to help to harden me. I had heard so much, 
in my wrong-doing, of my neglected duty, that I took up 
with the belief that duty had not been done to me, and 
that as the seed was sown, the harvest grew. I somehow 
made it out that when ladies had bad homes and mothers, 
they went wrong in their way, too ; but that their way 
was not so foul a one as mine, and they had need to bless 
God for it. That is all past. It is like a dream, now, 
which I cannot quite remember or understand. It has 
been more and more like a dream, every day, since you 
began to sit here, and to read to me. I only tell it you, 
as I can recollect it. Will you read to me a little 
more ? ” 

Harriet was withdrawing her hand to open the book, 
when Alice detained it for a moment. 

“ You will not forget my mother ? I forgive her, if I 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


263 


have any cause. I know that she forgives me, and ia 
sorry in her heart. You will not forget her ? ” 

u Never, Alice ! ” 

“ A moment yet. Lay my head so, dear, that as you 
read, I may see the words in your kind face.” 

Harriet complied and read — read the eternal book 
for all the weary, and the heavy-laden ; for all the 
wretched, fallen, and neglected of this earth — read the 
blessed history, in which the blind, lame, palsied beggar, 
the criminal, the woman stained with shame, the shunned 
of all our dainty clay, has each a portion, that no human 
pride, indifference, or sophistry through all the ages that 
this world shall last, can take away, or by the thousandth 
atom of a grain reduce — read the ministry of Him, who, 
through the round of human life, and all its hopes and 
griefs, from birth to death, from infancy to age, had sweet 
compassion for, and interest in, its every scene and stage, 
its every suffering and sorrow. 

“ I shall come,” said Harriet, when she shut the book, 
“ very early in the morning.” 

The lustrous eyes, yet fixed upon her face, closed for a 
moment, then opened ; and Alice kissed, and blest her. 

The same eyes followed her to the door ; and in their 
light, and on the tranquil face, there was a smile when it 
was closed. 

They never turned away. She laid her hand upon 
her breast, murmuring the sacred name that had been 
read to her ; and life passed from her face, like light 
removed. 

Nothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of the 
mortal house on which the rain had beaten, and the 
black hair that had fluttered in the wintry wind. 


264 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Changes have come again upon the great house in 
the long dull street, once the scene of Florence’s child- 
hood and loneliness. It is a great house still, proof 
against wind and weather, without breaches in the roof, 
or shattered windows, or dilapidated walls ; but it is a 
ruin none the less, and the rats fly from it. 

Mr. Towlinson and company are, at first, incredulous 
in respect of the shapeless rumors that they hear. 
Cook says our people’s credit a’n’t so easy shook as 
that comes to, thank God ; and Mr. Towlinson expects 
to hear it reported next, that the Bank of England’s 
a-going to break, or the jewels in the Tower to be sold 
up. But, next come the Gazette, and Mr. Perch : and 
Mr. Perch brings Mrs. Perch to talk it over in the 
kitchen, and to spend a pleasant evening. 

As soon as there is no doubt about it, Mr. Towlinson’s 
main anxiety is that the failure should be a good round 
one — not less than a hundred thousand pound. Mr. 
Perch don’t think himself that a hundred thousand pound 
will nearly cover it. The women, Jed by Mrs. Perch 
and cook, often repeat “ a hun-dred thou-sand pound ! ” 
with awful satisfaction — as if handling the words were 
like handling the money ; and the housemaid, who has 
her eye on Mr. Towlinson, wishes she had only a bui* 


DOMBEY AND SuN. 


265 


dredth part of the sum to bestow on the man of her 
choice. Mr. Towlinson, still mindful of his old wrong, 
opines that a foreigner would hardly know what to do 
with so much money, unless he spent it on his whiskers ; 
which bitter sarcasm causes the housemaid to withdraw 
in tears. 

But not to remain long absent ; for cook, who has tha 
reputation of being extremely good-hearted, says what- 
ever they do, let ’em stand by one another now, Towlin- 
son, for there’s no telling how soon they may be divided. 
They have been in that house (says cook) through a 
funeral, a wedding, and a running-away ; and let it not 
be said that they couldn’t agree among themselves at 
such a time as the present. Mrs. Perch is immensely 
affected by this moving address, and openly remarks 
that cook is an angel. Mr. Towlinson replies to cook, 
far be it from him to stand in the way of that good feel- 
ing which he could wish to see ; and adjourning in quest 
of the housemaid, and presently returning with that 
young lady on his arm, informs the kitchen that foreign- 
ers is only his fun, and that him and Anne have' now 
‘resolved to take one another for better for worse, and to 
settle in Oxford Market in the general green grocery 
and herb and leech line, where your kind favors is 
particular requested. This announcement is received 
with acclamation; and Mrs. Perch, projecting her soul 
into futurity, says, “ girls,” in cook’s ear, in a solemn 
whisper. 

Misfortune in the family without feasting, in these 
lower regions, couldn’t be. Therefore cook tosses up a 
hot dish or two for supper, and Mr. Towlinson com- 
pounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same hos- 
pitable purpose. Even Mrs. Pipchin, agitated by the 


266 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


occasiop, rings her bell, and sends down word that she 
requests to have that little bit of sweet-bread that was 
left, warmed up for her supper, and sent to her on a 
tray with about a quarter of a tumbler-full of mulled 
cherry ; for she feels poorly. 

There is a little talk about Mr. Dombey, but very 
little. It is chiefly speculation as to how long he has 
known that this was going to happen. Cook says 
shrewdly, “ Oh a long time, bless you ! Take your 
oath of that.” And reference being made to Mr. Perch 
he confirms her view of the case. Somebody wonders 
what he’ll do, and whether he’ll go out in any situation. 
Mr. Towlinson thinks not, and hints at a refuge in one 
of them gen-teel almshouses of the better kind. “ Ah ! 
where he’ll have his little garden you know,” says cook 
plaintively, “ and bring up sweet-peas in the spring.” 

“ Exactly so,” ^ys Mr. Towlinson, “ and be one of the 
Brethren of something or another.” “We are all 
brethren,” says Mrs. Perch, in a pause of her drink. 

“ Except the sisters,” says Mr. Perch. “ How are the 
mighty fallen ! ” remarks cook. “ Pride shall have a 
fall, and it always was and will be so ! ” observes the * 
housemaid. 

It is wonderful how good they feel, in making these 
reflections ; and what a Christian unanimity they are 
sensible of, in bearing the common shock with resigna- 
tion, There is only one interruption to this excellent 
state of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchen- 
maid of inferior rank — in black stockings — who, hav- 
ing sat with her mouth open for a long time, unexpect- 
edly discharges from it words to this effect, “ Suppose 
the wages shouldn’t be paid ! ” The company sit for a 
moment speechless ; but cook recovering first, turns upon 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


267 


the young woman, and requests to know how she dares 
insult the family whose bread she eats, by such a dishon- 
est supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody, 
with a scrap of honor left, could deprive poor servants 
of their pittance ? “ Because if that is your religious 

feelings, Mary Daws,” says cook, warmly, “ I don’t know 
where you mean to go to.” 

Mr. Towlinson don’t know either ; nor anybody ; and 
the young kitchen-maid, appearing not to know exactly 
herself, and scouted by the general voice, is covered with 
confusion, as with a garment. 

After a few days, strange people begin to call at the 
house, and to make appointments with one another in 
the dining-room, as if they lived there. Especially there 
is a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast of countenance, 
with a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in the 
drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other 
gentleman, who always has pen and ink in his pocket, 
asks Mr. Towlinson (by the easy name of “ Old Cock,”) 
if he happens to know what the figure of them crimson 
and gold hangings might have been, when new bought. 
The callers and appointments in the dining-room become 
more numerous every day, and every gentleman seems 
to have pen and ink in his pocket, and to have some 
occasion to use it. At last it is said that there is going 
to be a Sale ; and then more people arrive, with pen and 
ink in their pockets, commanding a detachment of men 
with carpet caps, who immediately begin to pull up the 
carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to print off 
thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall 
and staircase. 

The council down-stairs are in full conclave all this 
time, and, having nothing to do, perform perfect feats 


268 


DOMBET AND SON. 


of eating. At length they are one day summoned in 
a body to Mrs. Pipchin’s room, and thus addressed by 
the fair Peruvian : 

“ Your master’s in difficulties,” says Mrs. Pipchin, 
tartly. “ You know that, I suppose ? ” 

Mr. Towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowl- 
edge of the fact. 

“ And you’re all on the look-out for yourselves, I 
warrant you,” says Mrs. Pipchin, shaking her head at 
them. 

A shrill voice from the rear exclaims, “ No more than 
yourself ! ” 

“ That’s your opinion, Mrs. Impudence, is it ? ” says 
the ireful Pipchin, looking with a fiery eye over the in- 
termediate heads. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Pipchin, it is,” replies cook, advancing. 
“ And what then, pray ? ” 

“ Why, then you may go as soon as you like,” says 
Mrs. Pipchin. “ The sooner the better, and I hope I 
shall never see your face again.” 

With this the doughty Pipchin produces a canvas bag; 
and tells her wages out to that day, and a month beyond 
it ; and clutches the money tight, until a receipt for the 
same is duly signed, to the last up-stroke ; when she 
grudgingly lets it go. This form of proceeding Mrs. 
Pipchin repeats with every member of the household, 
until all are paid. 

* Now those that choose, can go about their business,” 
Bays Mrs. Pipchin, “ and those that choose can stay here 
on board wages for a week or so, and make themselves 
useful. Except,” says the inflammable Pipchin, “that 
Blut of a cook, who’ll go immediately.” 

“ That,” says cook, “ she certainly will ! I wish you 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


269 


good-day, Mrs. Pipchin, and sincerely wish I could com- 
pliment you on the sweetness of your appearance ! ” 

“ Get along with you,” said Mrs. Pipchin, stamping 
her foot. 

Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly 
exasperating to Mrs. Pipchin, and is shortly joined below 
stairs by the rest of the confederation. 

Mr. Towlinson then says, that, in the first place, he 
would beg to propose a little snack of something to eat ; 
and over that snack would desire to offer a suggestion 
which he thinks will meet the position in which they find 
themselves. The refreshment being produced, and very 
heartily partaken of, Mr. Towlinson’s suggestion is, in 
effect, that cook is going, and that if we are not true to 
ourselves, nobody will be true to us. That they have 
lived in that house a long time, and exerted themselves 
very much to be sociable together. (At this, cook says, 
with emotion, “ Hear, hear ! ” and Mrs. Perch, who is 
there again, and full to the throat, sheds tears.) And 
that he thinks, at the present time, the feeling ought to 
be “ Go one, go all ! ” The house-maid is much affected 
by this generous sentiment, and warmly seconds it. Cook 
says she feels it’s right, and only hopes it’s not done as 
a compliment to her, but from a sense of duty. Mr. 
Towlinson replies, from a sense of duty ; and that now 
he is driven to express his opinions, he will openly say, 
that he does not think it over-respectable to remain in 
a house where Sales and such-like are carrying forwards* 
The house-maid is sure of it ; and relates, in confirma- 
tion, that a strange man, in a carpet cap, offered, this 
very morning, to kiss her on the* stairs. Hereupon, Mr. 
Towlinson is starting from his chair, to seek and “smash” 
the offender ; when he is laid hold on by the lad/es, who 


270 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


beseech him to calm himself, and to reflect that it is 
easier and wiser to leave the scene of such indecencies 
at once. Mrs. Perch, presenting the case in a new light, 
even shows that delicacy towards Mr. Dombey, shut up 
in his own rooms, imperatively demands precipitate re- 
treat. “For what,” says the good woman, “must his 
feelings be, if he was to come upon any of the poor 
servants that he once deceived into thinking him im- 
mensely rich ! ” Cook is so struck by this moral con- 
sideration, that Mrs. Perch improves it with several 
pious axioms, original and selected. It becomes a clear 
case that they must all go. Boxes are packed, cabs 
fetched, and at dusk that evening there is not one mem- 
ber of the party left. 

The house stands, large and weather-proof, .in the 
long dull street ; but it is a ruin, and the rats fly from 
it. 

The men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the fur- 
niture about ; and the gentlemen with the pens and ink 
make out inventories of it, and sit upon pieces of furni- 
ture never made to be sat upon, and eat bread and 
cheese from the public-house on other pieces of furniture 
never made to be eaten on, and seem to have a delight 
in appropriating precious articles to strange uses. Cha- 
otic combinations of furniture also take place. Mattresses 
and bedding appear in the dining-room ; the glass and 
china get into the conservatory ; the great dinner-service 
is set out in heaps on the long divan in the large draw- 
ing-room ; and the stair-wires, made into fasces, decorate 
the marble chimney-pieces. Finally, a rug, with a 
printed bill upon it, is hung out from he balcony 
and a similar appendage graces either side of the hall- 
door. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


271 


Then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs 
and chaise-carts in the street ; and herds of shabby vam- 
pires, Jew and Christian, overrun the house, sounding 
the plate-glass mirrors with their knuckles, striking dis- 
cordant octaves on the grand piano, drawing wet fore- 
fingers over the pictures, breathing on the blades of the 
best dinner-knives, punching the squabs of chairs and 
sofas with their dirty fists, touzling the feather-beds, 
opening and shutting all the drawers, balancing the 
silver spoons and forks, looking into the very threads, 
of the drapery and linen, and disparaging everything. 
There is not a secret place in the whole house. Fluffy 
and snuffy strangers stare into the kitchen-range as 
curiously as into the attic clothes-press. Stout men with 
napless hats on, look out of the bedroom windows, and 
cut jokes with friends in the street. Quiet, calculating 
spirits withdraw into the dressing-rooms with catalogues, 
and make marginal notes thereon, with stumps of pencils. 
Two brokers invade the very fire-escape, and take a 
panoramic survey of the neighborhood from the top of 
the house. The swarm and buzz, and going up and 
down, endure for days. The Capital Modern House- 
hold Furniture, &c., is on view. 

Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best 
drawing-room ; and on the capital, french-polished, ex- 
tending, telescopic range of Spanish mahogany dining- 
tables with turned legs, the pulpit of the Auctioneer is 
erected ; and the herds of shabby vampires, Jew and 
Christian, the strangers fluffy and snuffy, and the stout 
men with the napless hats, congregate about it and sit 
upon everything within reach, mantel-pieces included, 
and begin to bid. Hot, humming, and dusty, are the 
rooms all day ; and — high above the heat, hum, and 


272 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


dust — the head and shoulders, voice and hammer, of 
the Auctioneer, are ever at work. The men in the car- 
pet caps get flustered and vicious, with tumbling the 
Lots about, and still the Lots are going, going, gone ; 
still coming on. Sometimes there is joking and a gen- 
eral roar. This lasts all day and three days following. 
The Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is on sale* 

Then the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts reappear ; and 
with them come spring-vans and wagons, and an army 
of porters with knots. All day long, the men with car- 
pet caps are screwing at screw-drivers and bed-winches, 
or staggering by the dozen together on the staircase un- 
der heavy burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks of Span- 
ish mahogany, best rosewood, or plate-glass, into the 
gigs and chaise-carts, vans and wagons. All sorts of 
vehicles of burden are in attendance, from a tilted wagon 
to a wheel-barrow. Poor Paul’s little bedstead is car- 
ried off in a donkey-tandem. For nearly a whole week 
the Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is in 
course of removal. 

At last it is all gone. Nothing is left about the house 
but scattered leaves of catalogues, littered scraps of straw 
and hay, and a battery of pewter pots behind the hall- 
door. The men with the carpet caps gather up their 
screw-drivers and bed-winches into bags, shoulder them, 
and walk off. One of the pen and ink gentlemen goes 
over the house as a last attention ; sticking up bills in 
the windows respecting the lease of this desirable family 
mansion, and shutting the shutters. At length he follows 
the men with the carpet caps. None of the invaders 
remain. The house is a ruin, and the rats fly from it. 

Mrs. Pipchin’s apartments, together with those locked 
rooms on the ground-floor where the window-blinds are 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


273 


drawn down close, have been spared the general devasta- 
tion. Mrs. Pipchin has remained austere and stony 
during the proceedings, in her own room ; or has occa- 
sionally looked in at the sale to see what the goods are 
fetching, and to bid for one particular easy-chair. Mrs 
Pipchin has been the highest bidder for the easy-chair 
and sits upon her property when Mrs. Chick comes to 
see her. 

“ How is my brother, Mrs. Pipchin ? ” says Mrs. Chick. 

“ I don’t know any more than the deuce,” says Mrs. 
Pipchin. “ He never does me the honor to speak to me. 
He has his meat and drink put in the next room to his 
own ; and what he takes, he comes out and takes when 
there’s nobody there. It’s no use asking me. I know 
no more about him than the man in the south who burnt 
his mouth by eating cold plum-porridge.” 

This the acrimonious Pipchin says with a flounce. 

u But good gracious me ! ” cries Mrs. Chick blandly, 
“ How long is this to last ! If my brother will not make 
an effort, Mrs. Pipchin, what is to become of him ? I 
am sure I should have thought he had seen enough of 
the consequences of not making an effort, by this time, to 
be warned against that fatal error.” 

u Hoity toity ! ” says Mrs. Pipchin, rubbing her nose. 
“ There’s a great fuss, I think, about it. It a’n’t so won- 
derful a case. People have had misfortunes before now, 
and been obliged to part with their furniture. I’m sure 
1 have ! ” 

“ My brother,” pursues Mrs. Chick profoundly, " is so 
peculiar — so strange a man. He is the most peculiar 
man /ever saw. Would any one believe that when he 
received news of the marriage and emigration of that 
unnatural child — it’s a comfort to me, now, to remem- 
vol. iv. 18 


274 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


berthat I always said there was something extraordinary 
about that child : but nobody minds me — would any- 
body believe, I say, that he should then turn round upon 
me and say he had supposed, from my manner, that she 
h^d come to my house ? Why, my gracious ! And 
would anybody believe that when I merely say to him 
‘ Paul, I may be very foolish, and I have no doubt I am, 
but I cannot understand how your affairs can have got 
into this state/ he should actually fly at me, and request 
that I will come to see him no more until he asks me ! 
Why, my goodness ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” says Mrs. Pipchin. “ It’s a pity he hadn’t a 
little more to do with mines. They’d have tried his 
temper for him.” 

“ And what,” resumes Mrs. Chick, quite regardless of 
Mrs. Pipchin’s observations, “ is it to end in ? That’s 
what I want to know. What does my brother mean to 
do ? He must do something. It’s of no use remaining 
shut up in his own rooms. Business won’t come to him. 
No. He must go to it. Then why don’t he go ! He 
knows where to go, I suppose, having been a man of 
business all his life. Very good. Then why not go 
there?” 

Mrs. Chick, after forging this powerful chain of rea- 
soning, remains silent for a minute to admire it. 

“ Besides,” says the discreet lady, with an argumenta- 
tive air, “ who ever heard of such obstinacy as his stay- 
ing shut up here through all these dreadful disagreea- 
bles ? It’s not as if there was no place for him to go to. 
Of course, he could have come to our house. He knows 
he is at home there, I suppose ? Mr. Chick has per- 
fectly bored about it, and I said with my own lips, 4 Why, 
surely, Paul, you don’t imagine that because your affairs 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


275 


have got into this state, you are the less at home to such 
near relatives as ourselves ? You don’t imagine that we 
are like the rest of the world ? * But no ; here he stays 
all through, and here he is. Why, good gracious me, 
suppose the house was to be let ! what would he do 
then ? He couldn’t remain here, then. If he attempted 
to do so, there would be an ejectment, an action for Doe, 
and all sorts of things ; and then he must go. Then 
why not go at first instead of at last ? And that brings 
me back to what I said just now, and I naturally ask 
what is to be the end of it ? ” 

“ I know what’s to be the end of it, as far as 1 am 
concerned,” replies Mrs. Pipchin, “ and that’s enough for 
me. I’m going to take myself of in a jiffy.” 

“ In a which, Mrs. Pipchin ? ” says Mrs. Chick. 

“ In a jiffy,” retorts Mrs. Pipchin sharply. 

“ Ah, well ! really I can’t blame you, Mrs. Pipchin,” 
says Mrs. Chick with frankness. 

“ It would be pretty much the same to me, if you 
could,” replies the sardonic Pipchin. “ At any rate I’m 
going. I can’t stop here. I should be dead in a week. 
I had to cook my own pork-chop yesterday, and I’m not 
used to it. My constitution will be giving way next. 
Besides I had a very fair connection at Brighton when I 
came here — little Pankey’s folks alone were worth a 
good eighty pounds a year to me — and I can’t afford to 
throw it away. I’ve written to my niece, and she ex- 
pects me by this time.” 

“ Have you spoken to my brother ? ” inquires Mrs. 
Chick. 

u Oh, yes, it’s very easy to say speak to him,” retorts 
Mrs. Pipchin. “ How is it done ! I called out to him 
yesterday, that I was no use here, and that he had better 


276 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


let me send for Mrs. Richards. He grunted something 
or other that meant yes, and I sent. Grunt indeed ! If 
he had been Mr. Pipchin, he’d have had some reason to 
grunt. Yah ! I’ve no patience with it! ” 

Here this exemplary female, who has pumped up so 
much fortitude and virtue from the depths of the Peru- 
vian mines, rises from her cushioned property to see 
Mrs. Chick to the door. Mrs. Chick, deploring to the 
last the peculiar character of her brother, noiselessly re- 
tires, much occupied with her own sagacity and clearness 
of head. 

In the dusk of the evening Mr. Toodle, being off duty, 
arrives with Polly and a box, and leaves them, with a 
sounding kiss, in the hall of the empty house, the retired 
character of which affects Mr. Toodle’s spirits strongly. 

“ I tell you what, Polly my dear,” says Mr. Toodle, 
“ Being now, an ingein-driver, and well to do in the 
world, I shouldn’t allow of your coming here, to be made 
dull-like, if it warn’t for favors past. But favors past, 
Polly, is never to be forgot. To them which is in adver- 
sity, besides, your face is a cord’l. So let’s have another 
kiss on it, my dear. You wish no better than to do a 
right act, I know ; and my views is, that it’s right and 
dutiful to do this. Good-night, Polly ! ” 

Mrs. Pipchin by this time looms dark in her black 
bombazine skirts, black bonnet, and shawl ; and has her 
personal property packed up ; and has her chair (late a 
favorite chair of Mr. Dombey’s, and the dead bargain of 
the sale) ready near the street-door ; and is only waiting 
for a fly van, going to-night to Brighton on private ser- 
vice, which is to call for her, by private contract, and 
convey her home. 

Presently it comes. Mrs. Pipchin’s wardrobe being 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


277 


handed in and stowed away, Mrs. Pipcliin’s chair is next 
handed in, and placed in a convenient corner among cer- 
tain trusses of hay ; it being the intention of the amiable 
woman to occupy the chair during her journey. Mrs. 
Pipchin herself is next handed in, and grimly takes her 
seat. There is a snaky gleam in her hard gray eye, as 
of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, relays of hot 
chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp 
snappings at poor Berry, and all the other delights of 
her Ogress’s castle. Mrs. Pipchin almost laughs as the 
fly van drives off, and she composes her black bombazine 
skirts, and settles herself among the cushions of her easy- 
chain 

The house is such a ruin that the rats have fled, and 
there is not one left. 

But Polly, though alone in the deserted mansion — 
for there is no companionship in the shut-up rooms in 
which its late master hides his head — is not alone 
long. It is night ; and she is sitting at work in the 
house-keeper’s room, trying to forget what a lonely house 
it is, and what a history belongs to it ; when there is a 
knock at the hall-door, as loud sounding as any knock 
can be, striking into such an empty place. Opening it, 
she returns across the echoing hall, accompanied by a 
female figure in a close black bonnet. It is Miss Tox, 
and Miss Tox’s eyes are red. 

“ Oh, Polly,” says Miss Tox, “ when I looked in to 
have a little lesson with the children just now, I got the 
message that you left for me ; and as soon as I could 
recover my spirits at all, I came on after you. Is 
there no one here, but you ? a 

“ Ah ! not a soul,” says Polly. 

*' Mave you seen him ? ” whispers Miss Tox. 


278 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Bless you,” returns Polly, “ no ; he has not been 
seen this many a day. They tell me he never leaves 
his room.” 

“ Is he said to be ill ? ” inquires Miss Tox. 

“No, ma’am, not that I know of,” returns Polly, 
u except in his mind. He must be very bad there, 
poor gentleman ! ” 

Miss Tox’s sympathy is such that she can scarcely 
speak. She is no chicken, but she has not grown tough 
with age and celibacy. Her heart is very tender, her 
compassion very genuine, her homage very real. Be- 
neath the locket with the fishy-eye in it, Miss Tox bears 
better qualities than many a less whimsical outside ; such 
qualities as will outlive, by many courses of the sun, the 
best outsides and brightest husks that fall in the harvest 
of the Great Reaper. 

It is long before Miss Tox goes away, and before 
Polly, with a candle flaring on the blank stairs, looks 
after her, for company, down the street, and feels unwill- 
ing to go back into the dreary house, and jar its empti- 
ness with the heavy fastenings of the door, and glide 
away to bed. But all this Polly does ; and in the morn- 
ing sets in one of those darkened rooms such matters as 
she has been advised to prepare, and then retires and 
enters them no more until next morning at the same 
hour. There are bells there, but they never ring ; and 
though she can sometimes hear a foot-fall going to and 
fro, it never comes out. 

Miss Tox returns early in the day. It then begins to 
be Miss Tox*s occupation to prepare little dainties — or 
what are such to her — to be carried into these rooms 
next morning. She derives so much satisfaction from 
the pursuit, that she enters on it regularly from that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


279 


time ; and brings daily in her little basket, various choice 
condiments selected from the scanty stores of the deceased 
owner of the powdered head and pigtail. She likewise 
brings, in sheets of curl paper, morsels of cold meats, 
tongues of sheep, halves of fowls, for her own dinner ; 
and sharing these collations with Polly, passes the 
greater part of her time in the ruined house that the 
rats have fled from : hiding, in a fright at every sound, 
stealing in and out like a criminal ; only desiring to be 
true to the fallen object of her admiration, unknown 
to him, unknown to all the world but one poor simple 
woman. 

The major knows it ; but no one is the wiser for that, 
though the major is much the merrier. The major, in a 
fit of curiosity, has charged the native to watch the house 
sometimes, and find out what becomes of Dombey. The 
native has reported Miss Tox’s fidelity, and the major 
has nearly choked himself dead with laughter. He is per- 
manently bluer from that hour, and constantly wheezes 
to himself, his lobster eyes starting out of his head, 
•• Damme, sir, the woman’s a born idiot ! ” 

And the ruined man. How does he pass the hours, 
atone ? 

** Let him remember it in that room, years to come ! ” 
He did remember it. It was heavy on his mind now ; 
heavier than all the rest. 

‘‘ Let him remember it in that room, years to come. 
The rain that falls upon the roof, the wind that mourns 
outside the door, may have foreknowledge in their mel- 
ancholy sound. Let him remember it in that room, years 
to come ! ” 

He did remember it. In the miserable night he 
thought of it ; in the dreary day, the wretched dawn, 


280 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


the ghostly, memory-haunted twilight. He did remem* 
ber it. In agony, in sorrow, in remorse, in despair ! 
“ Papa ! papa ! Speak to me, dear papa ! ” He heard 
the words again, and saw the face. He saw it fall apon 
the trembling hands, and heard the one prolonged low 
cry go upward. 

He was fallen, never to be raised up any more. For 
the night of his worldly ruin there was no to-morrow’s 
sun ; for the stain of his domestic shame there was no 
purification ; nothing, thank Heaven, could bring his 
dead child back to life. But that which he might have 
made so different in all the past — which might have 
made the past itself so different, though this he hardly 
thought of now — that which was his own work, that 
which he could so easily have wrought into a blessing, 
and had set himself so steadily for years to form into a 
curse : that was the sharp grief of his soul. 

Oh ! He did remember it ! The rain that fell upon 
the roof, the wind that mourned outside the door that 
night, had had foreknowledge in their melancholy sound. 
He knew, now, what he had done. He knew, now, that 
he had called down that upon his head, which bowed it 
lower than the heaviest stroke of fortune. He knew, 
now, what it was to be rejected and deserted ; now, when 
every loving blossom he had withered in his innocent 
daughter’s heart was snowing down in ashes on him. 

He thought of her, as she had been that night when 
he and his bride came home. He thought of her as she 
had been, in all the home-events of the abandoned house. 
He thought, now, that of all around him, she alone had 
never changed. His boy had faded into dust, his proud 
wife had sunk into a polluted creature, his flatterer and 
friend had been transformed into the worst of villains, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


281 


his riches had melted away, the very walls that sheltered 
him looked on him as a stranger ; she alone had turned 
the same mild gentle look upon him always. Yes, to the 
latest and the last. She had never changed to him — 
nor had he ever changed to her — and she was lost. 

As, one by one, they fell away before his mind — his 
baby-hope, his wife, his friend, his fortune — oh how the 
mist, through which he had seen her, cleared, and showed 
him her true self! Oh, how much better than this that 
he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost her as he 
had his boy, and laid them in their early grave together! 

In his pride — for he was proud yet — he let the 
world go from him freely. As it fell away, he shook it 
off. Whether he imagined its face as expressing pity for 
him, or indifference to him, he shunned it alike. It was 
in the same degree to be avoided, in either aspect. He 
had no idea of any one companion in his misery, but the 
one he had driven away. What he would have said to 
her, or what consolation submitted to receive from her, 
he never pictured to himself. But he always knew she 
would have been true to him, if he had suffered her. 
He always knew she would have loved him better now, 
than at any other time : he was as certain that it was in 
her nature, as he was that there was a sky above him ; 
and he sat thinking so, in his loneliness, from hour to 
hour. Day after day uttered this speech ; night after 
night showed him this knowledge. 

It began, beyond all doubt (however slowly it ad- 
vanced for some time), in the receipt of her young hus- 
band’s letter, and the certainty that she was gone. And 
yet — so proud he was in his ruin, or so reminiscent of 
her only as something that might have been his, but was 
lost beyond redemption — that if he could have heard 


282 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


her voice in an adjoining room, he would not have gone 
to her. If he could have seen her in the street, and she 
had done no more than look at him as she had been used 
to look, he would have passed on with his old cold unfor- 
giving face, and not addressed her, or relaxed it, though 
his heart should have broken soon afterwards. However 
turbulent his thoughts, or harsh his anger had been, at 
first, concerning her marriage, or her husband, that was 
all past now. He chiefly thought of what might have 
been, and what was not. What was, was all summed up 
in this : that she was lost, and he bowed down with sor- 
row and remorse. 

And now he felt that he had had two children born to 
him in that house, and that between him and the bare 
wide empty walls there was a tie, mournful, but hard 
to rend asunder, connected with a double childhood, and 
a double loss. He had thought to leave the house — 
knowing he must go, not knowing whither — upon the 
■evening of the day on which this feeling first struck root 
in his breast ; but he resolved to stay another night, and 
in the night to ramble through the rooms once more. 

He came out of his solitude when it was the dead of 
night, and with a candle in his hand went softly up the 
stairs. Of all the footmarks there, making them as com- 
mon as the common street, there was not one, he thought, 
but had seemed at the time to set itself upon his brain 
while he had kept close, listening. He looked at their 
number, and their hurry, and contention, — foot tread- 
ing foot out, and upward track and downward jostling 
one another — and thought, with absolute dread and 
wonder, how much he must have suffered during that 
trial, and what a changed man he had cause to be. He 
thought, besides, oh was there, somewhere in the world, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


283 


a light footstep that might have worn out in a moment 
half those marks ! — and bent his head, and wept as he 
went up. 

He almost saw it, going on before. He stopped, look- 
ing up towards the skylight ; and a figure, childish itself, 
but carrying a child, and singing as it went, seemed to be 
there again. Anon, it was the same figure, alone, stop- 
ping for an instant, with suspended breath ; the bright 
hair clustering loosely round its tearful face ; and look- 
ing back at him. 

He wandered through the rooms : lately so luxurious ; 
now so bare and dismal and so changed, apparently, even 
in their shape and size. The press of footsteps was as 
thick here ; and the same consideration of the suffering 
he had had, perplexed and terrified him. He began 
to fear that all this intricacy in his brain would drive 
him mad ; and that his thoughts already lost coherence 
as the footprints did, and were pieced on to one an- 
other, with the same trackless involutions, and varieties 
of indistinct shapes. 

He did not so much as know in which of these rooms 
she had lived, when she was alone. He was glad to 
leave them, and go wandering higher up. Abundance 
of associations were here, connected with his false wife, 
his false friend and servant, his false grounds of pride ; 
but he put them all by now, and only recalled miserably, 
weakly, fondly, his two children. 

Everywhere, the footsteps ! They had had no respect 
for the old room high up, where the little bed had been ; 
he could hardly find a clear space there, to throw him- 
self down, on the floor, against the wall, poor broken 
man, and let his tears flow as they would. He had 
shed so many tears here, long ago, that he was less 


284 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ashamed of his weakness in this place than in any other 
— perhaps, with that consciousness, had made excuses 
to himself for coming here. Here, with stooping shoul- 
ders and his chin dropped on his breast, he had come. 
Here, thrown upon the bare boards, in the dead of night, 
he wept, alone — a proud man, even then ; who, if a 
kind hand could have been stretched out, or a kind face 
could have looked in, would have risen up, and turned 
away, and gone down to his cell. 

When the day broke he was shut up in his rooms 
again. He had meant to go away to-day, but clung to 
this tie in the house as the last and only thing left to 
him. He would go to-morrow. To-morrow came. He 
would go to-morrow. Every night, within the knowl- 
edge of no human creature, he came forth, and wandered 
through the despoiled house like a ghost. Many a morn- 
ing when the day broke, his altered face, drooping be- 
hind the closed blind in his window, imperfectly trans- 
parent to the light as yet, pondered on the loss of his 
two children. It was one child no more. He reunited 
them in his thoughts, and they were never asunder. 
Oh, that he could have united them in his past love, 
and in death, and that one had not been so much worse 
than dead ! 

Strong mental agitation and disturbance was no nov- 
elty to him, even before his late sufferings. It never 
is to obstinate and sullen natures ; for they struggle 
hard to be such. Ground, long undermined, will often 
fall down in a moment ; what was undermined here in 
to many ways, weakened, and crumbled, little by little, 
more and more, as the hand moved on the dial. 

At last he began to think he need not go at all. He 
might yet give up what his creditors had spared him 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


285 


(that they had not spared him more, was his own act), 
and only sever the tie between him and the ruined house, 
by severing that other link — 

It was then that his footfall was audible in the late 
house-keeper’s room, as he walked to and fro ; but not 
audible in its true meaning, or it would have had an 
appalling sound. 

The world was very busy and restless about him. 
He became aware of that again. It was whispering 
and babbling. It was never quiet. This, and the intri- 
cacy and complication of the footsteps, harassed him to 
death. Objects began to take a bleared and russet color 
in his eyes. Dombey and Son was no more — his 
children no more. This must be thought of, well, to- 
morrow. 

He thought of it to-morrow ; and sitting thinking in 
his chair, saw, in the glass, from time to time, this 
picture : 

A spectral, haggard, wasted likeness of himself, 
brooded and brooded over the empty fireplace. Now 
it lifted up its head, examining the lines and hollows 
in its face ; now hung it down again, and brooded afresh. 
Now it rose and walked about ; now passed into the 
next room, and came back with something from the 
dressing-table in its breast. Now, it was looking at the 
bottom of the door, and thinking. 

— Hush ! what ? 

It was thinking that if blood were to trickle that way, 
and to leak out into the hall, it must be a lorg time 
going so far. It would move so stealthily and slowly, 
creeping on, with here a lazy little pool, and there a 
start, and then another little pool, that a desperately 
wounded man could only be discovered through its 


286 


JDOMBEY AND SON. 


means, either dead or dying. When it had thought of 
this a long while, it got up again, and walked to and 
fro with its hand in its breast. He glanced at it oc- 
casionally, very curious to watch its motions, and he 
marked how wicked and murderous that hand looked. 

Now it was thinking again ! What was it thinking ? 

Whether they would tread in the blood when it crept 
so far, and carry it about the house among those many 
prints of feet, or even out into the street. 

It sat down, with its eyes upon the empty fireplace, 
and as it lost itself in thought there shone into the room 
a gleam of light ; a ray of sun. It was quite unmind- 
ful, and sat thinking. Suddenly it rose, with a terrible 
face, and that guilty hand grasping what was in its 
breast. Then it was arrested by a cry — a wild, loud, 
piercing, loving, rapturous cry — and he only saw his 
own reflection in the glass, and at his knees, his daugh- 
ter ! 

Yes. His daughter ! Look at her ! Look here ! 
Down upon the ground, clinging to him, calling to him, 
folding her hands, praying to him. 

“ Papa ! Dearest papa ! Pardon me, forgive me ! 
I have come back to ask forgiveness on my knees. I 
never can be happy more, without it ! ” 

Unchanged still. Of all the world, unchanged. Rais- 
ing the same face to his, as on that miserable night. 
Asking his forgiveness ! 

44 Dear papa, oh don’t look strangely on me ! I never 
meant to leave you. I never thought of it, before or 
afterwards. I was frightened when I went away, and 
could not think. Papa, dear, I am changed. I am 
penitent. I know my fault. I know my duty better 
now. Papa, don’t cast me off, or I shall die ! ” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


287 


He tottered to his chair. He felt her draw his arras 
about her neck : he felt her put her own round his ; 
he felt her kisses on his face ; he felt her wet cheek 
laid against his own ; he felt — oh, how deeply ! — all 
that he had done. 

Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart 
that he had almost broken, she laid his face, now cov- 
ered with his hands, and said, sobbing : 

44 Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who 
will soon call Walter by the name by which I call you. 
When it was born, and when I knew how much I 
loved it, I knew what I had done in leaving you. For- 
give me, dear papa ! oh say God bless me, and my 
little child ! ” 

He would have said it, if he could. He would have 
raised his hands and besought her for pardon, but she 
caught them in her own, and put them down, hur- 
riedly. 

44 My little child was born at sea, papa. I prayed to 
God (and so did Walter for me) to spare me, that I 
might come home. The moment I could land, I came 
back to you. Never let us be parted any more, papa. 
Never let us be parted any more ! ” 

His head, now gray, was encircled by her arm ; and 
he groaned to think that never, never, had it rested so 
before. 

44 You will come home with me, papa, and see ray 
baby. A boy, papa. His name is Paul. I think — I 
hope — he’s like ” — 

Her tears stopped her. 

44 Dear papa, for the sake of my child, for the sake of 
the name we have given him, for my sake, pardon Wal- 
ter. He is so kind and tender to me. I am so happy 


288 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


with him. It was not his fault that we were married. 
It was mine. I loved him so much.” 

She clung closer to him, more endearing and more 
earnest. 

“ lie is the darling of my heart, papa. I would die 
for him. He will love and honor you as I will. We 
will teach our little child to love and honor you : and we 
will tell him, when he can understand, that you had a 
son of that name once, and that he died, and you were 
very sorry ; but that he is gone to heaven, where we 
all hope to see him when our time for resting comes. 
Kiss me, papa, as a promise that you will be reconciled 
to Walter — to my dearest husband — to the father of 
the little child who taught me to come back, papa. Who 
taught me to come back ! ” 

As she clung closer to him, in another burst of 
tears, he kissed her on her lips, and, lifting up his 
eyes, said, “ Oh my God, forgive me, for I need it very 
much ! ” 

With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over 
and caressing her, and there was not a sound in all the 
house for a long, long time ; they remaining clasped in 
one another’s arms, in the glorious sunshine that had 
crept in with Florence. 

He dressed himself for going out, with a docile su!> 
mission to her entreaty ; and walking with a feeble gait, 
and looking back, with a tremble, at the room in which 
he had been so long shut up, and where he had seen the 
picture in the glass, passed out with her into the hall. 
Florence, hardly glancing round her, lest she should 
remind him freshly of their last parting — for their feet 
were on the very stones where he had struck her in his 
madness — and keeping close to him, with her eyes tipoD 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


289 


his face, and his arm about her, led him out to a coach 
that was waiting at the door, and carried him away. 

Then, Miss Tox and Polly came out of their conceal- 
ment, and exulted tearfully. And then they packed his 
clothes, and books, and so forth, with great care ; and 
consigned them in due course to certain persons sent by 
Florence in the evening, to fetch them. And then they 
took a last cup of tea in the lonely house. 

“ And so Dombey and Son, as I observed upon a cer- 
tain sad occasion,” said Miss Tox, winding up a host of 
recollections, “ is indeed a daughter, Polly, after all.” 

“ And a good one ! ” exclaimed Polly. 

“ You are right,” said Miss Tox ; “ and it’s a credit to 
you, Polly, that you were always her friend when she 
was a little child. You were her friend long before I 
was, Polly,” said Miss Tox ; “ and you’re a good crea- 
ture. Robin ! ” 

Miss Tox addressed herself to a bullet-headed young 
man, who appeared to be in but indifferent circumstances, 
and in depressed spirits, and who was sitting in a remote 
corner. Rising, he disclosed to view the form and feat- 
ures of the Grinder. 

“Robin,” said Miss Tox, “I have just observed to 
your mother, as you may have heard, that she is a good 
creature.” 

“ And so she is, miss,” quoth the Grinder, with some 
feeling. 

“ Very well, Robin,” said Miss Tox, “ I am glad to 
hear you say so. Now, Robin, as I am going to give 
you a trial, at your urgent request, as my domestic, with 
a view to your restoration to respectability, I will take 
this impressive occasion of remarking that I hope you 
will never forget that you have, and have always had, 8 
VOL. iv. 19 


290 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


good mother, and that you will endeavor so to conduct 
yourself as to be a comfort to her.” 

“ Upon my soul I will, miss,” returned the Grinder. 
u I have come through a good deal, and my intentions is 
now as straight for’ard, miss, as a cove’s ” — 

“ I must get you to break yourself of that word, Robin 
if you please,” interposed Miss Tox, politely. 

“ If you please, miss, as a chap’s ” — 

“ Thankee, Robin, no,” returned Miss Tox. “ I should 
prefer individual.” 

“As a indiwiddle’s,” said the Grinder. 

“ Much better,” remarked Miss Tox, complacently ; 

“ infinitely more expressive ! ” 

— “ can be,” pursued Rob. “ If I hadn’t been and got 
made a Grinder on, miss and mother, which was a most 
unfortunate circumstance for a young co — indiwiddle.” 

“ Very good indeed,” observed Miss Tox, approvingly. 

— “ and if I hadn’t been led away by birds, and then . 
fallen into a bad service,” said the Grinder, “ I hope I 
might have done better. But it’s never too late for a ” — 

“ Indi — ” suggested Miss Tox. 

“ widdle,” said the Grinder, “ to mend ; and I hope to 
mend, miss, with your kind trial ; and wishing, mother, 
my love to father, and brothers and sisters, and saying 
of it.” 

“ I am very glad indeed to hear it,” observed Miss 
Tox. “ Will you take a little bread and butter, and a 
cup of tea, before we go, Robin ? ” 

“Thankee, miss,” returned the Grinder; who imme 
diately began to use his own personal grinders in a most 
remarkable manner, as if he had been on very short al- 
lowance for a considerable period. 

Miss Tox being, in good time, bonneted and shawled, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


291 


and Polly too, Rob hugged his mother, and followed his 
new mistress away ; so much to the hopeful admiration 
of Polly, that something in her eyes made luminous rings 
round the gas-lamps as she looked after him. Polly then 
put out her light, locked the house-door, delivered the 
key at an agents hard by, and went home as fast as she 
could go ; rejoicing in the shrill delight that her unex- 
pected arrival would occasion there. The great house, 
dumb as to all that had been suffered in it, and the 
changes it had witnessed stood frowning like a dark mute 
on the street ; balking any nearer inquiries with the 
staring announcement that the lease of this desirable 
Family Mansion was to be disposed of. 


292 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


CHAPTER LX. 

CHIEFLY MATRIMONIAL. 

The grand half-yearly festival holden by Doctor and 
Mrs. Blimber, on which occasion they requested the 
pleasure of the company of every young gentleman pur- 
suing his studies in that genteel establishment, at an 
early party, when the hour was half-past seven o’clock, 
and when the object was quadrilles, had duly taken place, 
about this time ; and the young gentlemen, with no un- 
becoming demonstrations of levity, had betaken them- 
selves, in a state of scholastic repletion, to their own 
homes. Mr. Skettles had repaired abroad, permanently 
to grace the establishment' of his father Sir Barnet Sket- 
tles, whose popular manners had obtained him a diplo- 
matic appointment, the honors of which were discharged 
by himself and Lady Skettles, to the satisfaction even of 
their own countrymen and countrywomen : which wa9 
considered almost miraculous. Mr. Tozer, now a young 
man of lofty stature, in Wellington boots, was so ex- 
tremely full of antiquity as to be nearly on a par with a 
genuine ancient Roman in his knowledge of English : a 
triumph that affected his good parents with the tenderest 
emotions, and caused the father and mother of Mr. 
Briggs (whose learning, like ill-arranged luggage, was 
so tightly packed that he couldn’t get at anything he 
wanted) to hide their diminished heads. The fruit la- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


293 


boriously gathered from the tree of knowledge by this 
latter young gentleman, in fact, had been subjected to so 
much pressure, that it had become a kind of intellectual 
Norfolk Biffin, and had nothing of its original form or 
flavor remaining. Master Bitherstone now, on whom 
the forcing system had the happier and not uncommon 
effect of leaving no impression whatever, when the for- 
cing apparatus ceased to work, was in a much more com- 
fortable plight ; and being then on shipboard, bound for 
Bengal, found himself forgetting, with such admirable 
rapidity, that it was doubtful whether his declensions of 
noun-substantives would hold out to the end of the voy- 
age. 

When Doctor Blimber, in pursuance of the usual 
course, would have said to the young gentlemen, on the 
morning of the party, “ Gentlemen, we will resume our 
studies on the twenty-fifth of next month,” he departed 
from the usual course, and said, “ Gentlemen, when our 
friend Cincinnatus retired to his farm, he did not present 
to the senate any Roman whom he sought to nominate 
as his successor. But there is a Roman here,” said Doc- 
tor Blimber, laying his hand on the shoulder of Mr. 
Feeder, B. A., “ adolescens imprimis gravis et doctus , 
gentlemen, whom I, a retiring Cincinnatus, wish to pre- 
sent to my little senate, as their future Dictator. Gen- 
tlemen, we will resume our studies on the twenty-fifth 
of next month, under the auspices of Mr. Feeder, B. 
A.” At this (which Doctor Blimber had previously 
called upon all the parents, and urbanely explained), 
the young gentlemen cheered; and Mr.*Tozer, on be 
half of the rest, instantly presented the doctor with a 
silver inkstand, in a speech containing very little of the 
mother-tongue, but fifteen quotations from the Latin, 


294 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and seven from the Greek, which moved the youngei 
of the young gentlemen to discontent and envy ; they 
remarking, “ Oh, ah ! It was all very well for old 
Tozer, but they didn’t subscribe money for old Tozer 
to show off with, they supposed ; did they? What busi- 
ness was it of old Tozer’s more than anybody else’s? 
It wasn’t his inkstand, Why couldn’t he leave the boys* 
property alone ? ” and murmuring other expressions of 
their dissatisfaction, which seemed to find a greater re- 
lief in calling him old Tozer, than in any other avail- 
able vent. 

Not a word had been said to the young gentlemen, 
nor a hint dropped, of anything like a contemplated 
marriage between Mr. Feeder, B, A., and the fair 
Cornelia Blimber. Doctor Blimber, especially, seemed 
to take pains to look as if nothing would surprise him 
more ; but it was perfectly well known to all the young 
gentlemen nevertheless, and when they departed for the 
society of their relations and friends, they took leave 
of Mr. Feeder with awe. 

Mr. Feeder’s most romantic visions were fulfilled. 
The doctor had determined to paint the house outside, 
and put it in thorough repair; and to give up the 
business, and to give up Cornelia. The painting and 
repairing began upon the very day of the young gen- 
tlemen’s departure, and now behold ! the wedding morn- 
ing was come, and Cornelia, in a new pair of spectacles, 
was waiting to be led to the hymeneal altar. 

The doctor with his learned legs, and Mrs. Blimber 
in a lilac bonnet, and Mr. Feeder, B. A., with his long 
knuckles and his bristly head of hair, and Mr. Feeder’s 
brother, the Reverend Alfred Feeder, M. A., who was 
to perform the ceremony, were all assembled in the 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


2J5 


drawing-room, and Cornelia with her orange-flowers and 
bridesmaids had just come down, and looked, as of old, 
a little squeezed in appearance, but very charming, when 
the door opened, and the weak-eyed young man, in a 
loud voice, made the following proclamation : 

“ Mr. and Mrs. Toots ! ” 

Upon which there entered Mr. Toots, grown extremely 
stout, and on his arm a lady very handsomely and be- 
comingly dressed, with very bright black eyes. 

“ Mrs. Blimber,” said Mr. Toots, “ allow me to present 
my wife.” 

Mrs. Blimber was delighted to receive her. Mrs. 
Blimber was a little condescending, but extremely kind. 

“ And as you’ve known me for a long time, you 
know,” said Mr. Toots, “ let me assure you that she is 
one of the most remarkable women that ever lived.” 

“ My dear ! ” remonstrated Mrs. Toots. 

“Upon my word and honor she is,” said Mr. Toots. 
“I — I assure you, Mrs. Blimber, she’s a most extraor- 
dinary woman.” 

Mrs. Toots laughed merrily, and Mrs. Blimber led her 
to Cornelia. Mr. Toots having paid his respects in that 
direction, and having saluted his old preceptor, who said, 
in allusion to his conjugal state, “Well Toots, well 
Toots ! So you are one of us, are you Toots ? ” — re- 
tired with Mr. Feeder, B. A., into a window. 

Mr. Feeder, B. A., being in great spirits, made a spar 
at Mr. Toots, and tapped him skilfully with the back 
of his hand on the breast-bone. 

“Well, old Buck!” said Mr. Feeder with a laugh. 
“Well! Here we are ! Taken in and done for. Eh?” 

“ Feeder,” returned Mr. Toots. “ I give you joy. If 
you’re as — as — as perfectly blissful in a matrimonial 
life, as I am myself, you’ll have nothing to desire.” 


296 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ 1 don’t forget my old friends, you see,” said Mr. 
Feeder. “ I ask ’em to my wedding, Toots.” 

“Feeder,” replied Mr. Toots gravely, “the fact is, 
that there were several circumstances which prevented 
me from communicating with you until after my mar- 
riage had been solemnized. In the first place, I had 
made a perfect brute of myself to you on the subject of 
Miss Dombey ; and I felt that if you were asked to any 
wedding of mine, you would naturally expect that it was 
with Miss Dombey, which involved explanations, that 
upon my word and honor, at that crisis, would have 
knocked me completely over. In the second place, our 
wedding was strictly private ; there being nobody pres- 
ent but one friend of myself and Mrs. Toots’s, who is a 
captain in — I don’t exactly know in what,” said Mr. 
Toots, “but it’s of no consequence. I hope, Feeder, that 
in writing a statement of what had occurred before Mrs. 
Toots and myself went abroad upon our foreign tour, I 
fully discharged the offices of friendship.” 

“Toots, my boy,” said Mr. Feeder, shaking hands, “I 
was joking.” 

“And now Feeder,” said Mr. Toots, “I should be 
glad to know what you think of my union.” 

“Capital!” returned Mr. Feeder. 

“You think it’s capital, do you, Feeder?” said Mr. 
Toots solemnly. “ Then how capital must it be to Me. 
For you can never know what an extraordinary woman 
that is.” 

Mr. Feeder was willing to take it for granted. But 
Mr. Toots shook his head, and wouldn’t hear of that 
being possible. 

“ You see,” said Mr. Toots, “ what I wanted in a wife, 
was — in short, was sense. Money, Feeder, I had. 
Sense I — I had not, particularly.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


297 


Mr. Feeder murmured, “ Oh yes, you had, Toots ! * 
But Mr. Toots said : 

“No, Feeder, I had not . Why should I disguise it? 
I had not. I knew that sense was There,” said Mr. 
Toots, stretching out his hand towards his wife, “In 
perfect heaps. I had no relation to object or be of- 
fended, on the score of station ; for I had no relation. I 
have never had anybody belonging to me but my guar- 
dian, and him, Feeder, I have always considered as a 
Pirate and a Corsair. Therefore, you know it was not 
likely,” said Mr. Toots, “ that I should take his opinion.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Feeder. 

“ Accordingly,” resumed Mr. Toots, “ I acted on my 
own. Bright was the day on which I did so ! Feeder! 
Nobody but myself can tell what the capacity of that 
woman’s mind is. If ever the Rights of Woman, and all 
that kind of thing, are properly attended to, it will be 
through her powerful intellect. — Susan, my dear ! ” 
said Mr. Toots, looking abruptly out of the window- 
curtains, “pray do not exert yourself!” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Toots, “ I was only talking.” 

“ But my love,” said Mr. Toots, “ pray do not exert 
yourself. You really must be careful. Do not, my 
dear Susan, exert yourself. She’s so easily excited,” 
said Mr. Toots, apart to Mrs. Blimber, “ and then she 
forgets the medical man altogether.” 

Mrs. Blimber was impressing on Mrs. Toots the ne- 
cessity of caution, when Mr. Feeder, B. A., offered her 
his arm, and led her down to the carriages that were in 
waiting to go to church. Doctor Blimber escorted Mrs. 
Toots. Mr Toots escorted the fair bride, around whose 
lambent spectacles two gauzy little bridesmaids fluttered 
like moths. Mr. Feeder’s brother, Mr. Alfred Feeder, 


298 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


M. A., had already gone on, in advance, to assume his 
official functions. 

The ceremony was performed in an admirable man- 
ner. Cornelia with her crisp little curls, “ went in,” as 
the Chicken might have said, with great composure; and 
Doctor Blimber gave her away, like a man who had 
quite made up his mind to it. The gauzy little brides- 
maids appeared to suffer most. Mrs. Blimber was af- 
fected, but gently so ; and told the Reverend Mr. Alfred 
Feeder, M. A., on the way home, that if she could only 
have seen Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum, she 
would not have had a wish, now, ungratified. 

There was a breakfast afterwards, limited to the same 
small party ; at which the spirits of Mr. Feeder, B. A., 
were tremendous, and so communicated themselves to 
Mrs. Toots, that Mr. Toots was several times heard to 
observe, across the table, “ My dear Susan, don't exert 
yourself!” The best of it was, that Mr. Toots felt it 
incumbent on him to make a speech ; and in spite of a 
whole code of telegraphic dissuasions from Mrs. Toots, 
appeared on his legs for the first time in his life. 

“ I really,” said Mr. Toots, “ in this house, where 
whatever was done to me in the way of — of any mental 
confusion sometimes — which is of no consequence and I 
impute to nobody — I was always treated like one of 
Doctor Blimber’s family, and had a desk to myself for a 
considerable period — can — not — allow — my friend 
F eeder to be ” — 

Mrs. Toots suggested “ married.” 

“ It may not be inappropriate to the occasion, or alto- 
gether uninteresting,” said Mr. Toots with a delighted 
face, “ to observe that my wife is a most extraordinary 
woman, and would do this much better than myself — 


D0M13EY AND SON. 


299 


allow my friend Feeder to be manied — especially 
to” — 

Mrs. Toots suggested “Miss Blimber.” 

“ To Mrs. Feeder, my love ! ” said Mr. Toots, in a 
6ubdued tone of private discussion : “ ‘ whom God hath 
joined,’ you know, ‘ let no man ’ — don’t you know ? I 
cannot allow my friend, Feeder, to be married — espe- 
cially to Mrs. Feeder — without proposing their — their 

— Toasts ; and may,” said Mr. Toots, fixing his eyes on 
his wife, as if for inspiration in a high flight, “ may the 
torch of Hymen be the beacon of joy, and may the 
flowers we have this day strewed in their path, be the 

— the banishers of — of gloom ! ” 

Doctor Blimber, who had a taste for metaphor, was 
pleased with this, and said, “Very good, Toots! Yery 
well said, indeed, Toots!” and nodded his head and 
patted his hands. Mr. Feeder made in reply, a comic 
speech checkered with sentiment. Mr. Alfred Feeder, 
M. A., was afterwards very happy on Doctor and Mrs. 
Blimber; Mr. Feeder, B. A., scarcely less so, on the 
gauzy little bridesmaids. Doctor Blimber then in a 
sonorous voice, delivered a few thoughts in the pastoral 
style, relative to the rushes among which it was the in- 
tention of himself and Mrs. Blimber to dwell, and the 
bee that would hum around their cot. Shortly after 
which, as the doctor’s eyes were twinkling in a remark- 
able manner, and his son-in-law had already observed 
that time was made for slaves, and had inqi ired whether 
Mrs. Toots sang, the discreet Mrs. Blimber dissolved the 
sitting, and sent Cornelia away, very cool and comfort- 
able, in a post-chaise, wivh the man of her heart. 

Mr. and Mrs. Toots withdrew to the Bedford (Mrs. 
Toots had been there before in old times, under her 


800 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


maiden name of Nipper), and there found a letter, which 
it took Mr. Toots such an enormous time to read, that 
Mrs. Toots was frightened. 

44 My dear Susan,” said Mr. Toots, 44 fright is worse 
than exertion. Pray be calm ! ” 

44 Who is it from ? ” asked Mrs. Toots. 

44 Why, my love,” said Mr. Toots, 44 it’s from Captain 
Gilh:. Do not excite yourself. Walters and Miss Dom- 
bey are expected home ! ” 

44 My dear,” said Mrs. Toots, raising herself quickly 
from the sofa, very pale, 44 don’t try to deceive me, for 
it’s no use, they’re come home — I see it plainly in your 
face ! ” 

44 She’s a most extraordinary woman ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Toots in rapturous admiration. 44 You’re perfectly right, 
my love, they have come home. Miss Dombey has seen 
her father, and they are reconciled ! ” 

44 Reconciled ! ” cried Mrs. Toots, clapping her hands. 

44 My dear,” said Mr. Toots ; 44 pray do not exert your- 
self. Do remember the medical man ! Captain Gills 
says — at least he don’t say, but I imagine, from what 
I can make out, he means ; — that Miss Dombey has 
brought her unfortunate father away from his old house, 
to one where she and Walters are living ; that he is 
lying very ill there — supposed to be dying ; and that 
she attends upon him night and day.” 

Mrs. Toots began to cry quite bitterly. 

44 My dearest Susan,” replied Mr. Toots, 44 do, do, if 
you possibly can, remember the medical man ! If you 
can’t, it’s of no consequence — but do endeavor to ! ” 

His wife, with her old manner suddenly restored, so 
pathetically entreated him to take her to her precious 
pet, her little mistress, her own darling, and the like, that 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


301 


Mr. Toots, whose sympathy and admiration were of the 
strongest kind, consented from his very heart of hearts • 
and they agreed to depart immediately, and present 
themselves in answer to the captain’s letter. 

Now some hidden sympathies of things, or some coin 
cidences, had that day brought the captain himself (tow- 
ard whom Mr. and Mrs. Toots were soon journeying), 
into the flowery train of wedlock ; not as a principal, but 
as an accessory. It happened accidentally, and thus : 

The captain, having seen Florence and her baby for a 
moment, to his unbounded content, and having had a long 
talk with Walter, turned out for a walk ; feeling it neces- 
sary to have some solitary meditation on the changes of 
human affairs, and to shake his glazed hat profoundly 
over the fall of Mr. Dombey, for whom the generosity 
and simplicity of his nature were awakened in a lively 
manner. The captain would have been very low, in- 
deed, on the unhappy gentleman’s account, but for the 
recollection of the baby ; which afforded him such intent 
satisfaction whenever it arose, that he laughed aloud as 
he went along the street, and, indeed, more than once, in 
a sudden impulse of joy, threw up his glazed hat and 
caught it again ; much to the amazement of the specta- 
tors. The rapid alternations of light and shade to which 
these two conflicting subjects of reflection exposed the 
captain, were so very trying to his spirits, that he felt a 
long walk necessary to his composure ; and as there is a 
great deal in the influence of harmonious associations, he 
chose, for the scene of this walk, his old neighborhood, 
down among the mast, oar, and block-makers, ship-biscuit 
bakers, coal-whippers, pitch-kettles, sailors, canals, docks, 
B wing-bridges, and other soothing objects. 

These peaceful scenes, and particularly the region of 


802 


DOMBEY AND SON 


Limehouse-Hole and thereabouts, were so influential in 
calming the captain, that he walked on with restored 
tranquillity, and was, in fact, regaling himself, under his 
breath, with the ballad of Lovely Peg, when, on turning 
a corner, he was suddenly transfixed and rendered speech- 
less by a triumphant procession that he beheld advancing 
towards him. 

This awful demonstration was headed by that deter- 
mined woman Mrs. MacStinger, who, preserving a coun- 
tenance of inexorable resolution, and wearing conspicu- 
ously attached to her obdurate bosom a stupendous watch 
and appendages, which the captain recognized at a glance 
as the property of Bunsby, conducted under her arm no 
other than that sagacious mariner ; he, with the dis- 
traught and melancholy visage of a captive borne into 
a foreign land, meekly resigning himself to her will. 
Behind them appeared the young MacStingers, in a 
body, exulting. Behind them, two ladies of a terrible 
and steadfast aspect, leading between them a short gentle- 
man in a tall hat, who likewise exulted. In the wake, 
appeared Bunsby’s boy, bearing umbrellas. The whole 
were in good marching order ; and a dreadful smartness 
that pervaded the party would have sufficiently an- 
nounced, if the intrepid countenances of the ladies had 
been wanting, that it was a procession of sacrifice, and 
that the victim was Bunsby. 

The first impulse of the captain was to run away 
This also appeared to be the first impulse of Bunsby, 
hopeless as its execution must have proved. But a cry 
of recognition proceeding from the party, and Alexander 
MacStinger running up to the captain with open arms, 
the captain struck. 

“Well, Cap’en Cuttle !” said Mrs. MacStinger “This 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


303 


is indeed a meeting ! I bear no malice now. Cap’en 
Cuttle — you needn’t fear that I’m a-going to cast any 
reflections. I hope to go to the altar in another spirit.” 
Here Mrs. MacStinger paused, and drawing herself up, 
and inflating her bosom with a long breath, said, in allu- 
sion to the victim, “ My usband, Cap’en Cuttle ! ” 

The abject Bunsby looked neither to the right nor to 
the left, nor at his bride, nor at his friend, but straight 
before him at nothing. The captain putting out his 
hand, Bunsby put out his ; but, in answer to the cap- 
tain’s greeting, spake no word. 

“ Cap’en Cuttle,” said Mrs. MacStinger, “ if you 
would wish to heal up past animosities, and to see 
the last of your friend, my usband, as a single person, 
we should be appy of your company to chapel. Here is 
a lady here,” said Mrs. MacStinger, turning round to 
the more intrepid of the two, “ my bridesmaid, that will 
be glad of your protection, Cap’en Cuttle.” 

The short gentleman in the tall hat, who it appeared 
was the husband of the other lady, and who evidently 
exulted at the reduction of a fellow-creature to his own 
condition, gave place at this, and resigned the lady to 
Captain Cuttle. The lady immediately seized him, and, 
observing that there was no time to lose, gave the word, 
in a strong voice, to advance. 

The captain’s concern for his friend, not unmingled, at 
first, with some concern for himself — for a shadowy 
terror that he might be married by violence, possessed 
him, until his knowledge of the service came to his relief, 
and remembering the legal obligation of saying, “ I will,” 
he felt himself personally safe so long as he resolved, if 
asked any question, distinctly to reply “ I won’t ” — ■ 
threw him into a profuse perspiration ; and rendered 


304 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


him, for a time, insensible to the movements of the pro* 
cession, of which he now formed a feature, and to the 
conversation of his fair companion. But as he became 
less agitated, he learnt from this lady that she was the 
widow of a Mr. Bokum, who had held an employment 
in the Custom House ; that she was the dearest friend 
of Mrs. MacStinger, whom she considered a pattern for 
her sex ; that she had often heard of the captain, and 
now hoped he had repented of his past life ; that she 
trusted Mr. Bunsby knew what a blessing he had gained, 
but that she feared men seldom did know what such 
blessings were, until they had lost them ; with more to 
the same purpose. 

All this time, the captain could not but observe that 
Mrs. Bokum kept her eyes steadily on the bridegroom, 
and that whenever they came near a court or other nar- 
row turning which appeared favorable for flight, she was 
on the alert to cut him off if he attempted escape. The 
other lady, too, as well as her husband, the short gentle- 
man with the tall hat, were plainly on guard, according 
to a preconcerted plan ; and the wretched man was so 
secured by Mrs. MacStinger, that any effort at self-pres- 
ervation by flight was rendered futile. This, indeed, 
was apparent to the mere populace, who expressed their 
perception of the fact by jeers and cries ; to all of which, 
the dread MacStinger was inflexibly indifferent, while 
Bunsby himself appeared in a state of unconsciousness. 

The captain made many attempts to accost the philos- 
opher, if only in a monosyllable or a signal : but always 
failed, in consequence of the vigilance of the guard, and 
the difficulty, at all times peculiar to Bunsby’s constitu- 
tion, of having his attention aroused by any outward and 
visible sign whatever. Thus they approached the chapel, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


305 


a neat whitewashed edifice, recently engaged by the Rev- 
erend Melchisedech Howler, who had consented, on very 
urgent solicitation, to give the world another two years 
of existence, but had informed his followers that, then, it 
must positively go. 

While the Reverend Melchisedech was offering up 
some extemporary orisons, the captain found an oppor- 
tunity of growling in the bridegroom’s ear : 

“ What cheer, my lad, what cheer ? ” 

To which Bunsby replied, with a forgetfulness of the 
Reverend Melchisedech, which nothing but his desperate 
circumstances could have excused : 

“ D— d bad.” 

“ Jack Bunsby,” whispered the captain, “ do you do 
this here, o’ your own free will ? ” 

Mr. Bunsby answered “ No.” 

“ Why do you do it, then, my lad ? ” inquired the cap- 
tain, not unnaturally. 

Bunsby, still looking, and always looking with an im- 
movable countenance, at the opposite side of the world, 
made no reply. 

u Why not sheer off? ” said the captain. 

“ Eh ? ” whispered Bunsby, with a momentary gleam 
of hope. 

“ Sheer off,” said the captain.- 

u Where’s the good?” retorted the forlorn sage. “ She’d 
capter me agen.” 

“ Try ! ” replied the captain. “ Cheer up ! Come ! 
Now’s your time. Sheer off, Jack Bunsby ! ” 

Jack Bunsby, however, instead of profiting by the ad- 
vice, said in a doleful whisper : 

“It all began in that there chest o’ your’r Why did * 
l ever conwoy her into port that night ? ” 

VOL. iv. 20 


306 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ My lad,” faltered the captain, u I thought as you had 
come over her ; not as she had come over you. A man 
as has got such opinions as you have ! ” 

Mr. Bunsby merely uttered a suppressed groan. 

“ Come ! ” said the captain, nudging him with his el- 
bow, u now’s your time ! Sheer off ! I’ll cover your 
retreat. The time’s a-flying. Bunsby ! It’s for liberty. 
Will you once ? ” 

Bunsby was immovable. 

“ Bunsby ! ” whispered the captain, “ will you twice?” 
Bunsby wouldn’t twice. 

“ Bunsby ! ” urged the captain, “ it’s for liberty ; will 
you three times ? Now or never ! ” 

Bunsby didn’t then, and didn’t ever ; for Mrs. Mac- 
Stinger immediately afterwards married him. 

One of the most frightful circumstances of the cere- 
mony to the captain, was the deadly interest exhibited 
therein by Juliana MacStinger; and the fatal concentra- 
tion of her faculties, with which that promising child, 
already the image of her parent, observed the whole pro- 
ceedings. The captain saw in this a succession of man- 
traps stretching out infinitely ; a series of ages of op- 
pression and coercion, through which the seafaring line 
was doomed. It was a more memorable sight than the 
unflinching steadiness of Mrs. Bokum and the other lady, 
the exultation of the short gentleman in the tall hat, or 
even the fell inflexibility of Mrs. MacStinger. The 
Master MacStingers understood little of what was going 
on, and cared less ; being chiefly engaged, during the 
ceremony, in treading on one another’s half boots ; but 
the contrast afforded by those wretched infants only set 
off and adorned the precocious woman in Juliana. An- 
other year or two, the captain thought, and to lodge 
where that child was, would be destruction. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


307 


The ceremony was concluded by a general spring of 
the young family on Mr. Bunsby, whom they hailed by 
the endearing name of father, and from whom they solic 
ited half-pence. These gushes of affection over, the pro- 
cession was about to issue forth again, when it was de- 
layed for some little time by an unexpected transport on 
the part of Alexander MacStinger. That dear child, it 
seemed, connecting a chapel with tombstones, when it 
was entered for any purpose apart from the ordinary 
religious exercises, could not be persuaded but that his 
mother was now to be decently interred, and lost to 
him forever. In the anguish of this conviction, he 
screamed with astonishing force, and turned black in the 
face. However touching these marks of a tender dispo- 
sition were to his mother, it was not in the character of 
that remarkable woman to permit her recognition of 
them to degenerate into weakness. Therefore, after 
vainly endeavoring to convince his reason by shakes, 
pokes, bawlings-out, and similar applications to his head, 
she led him into the air, and tried another method ; 
which was manifested to the marriage-party by a quick 
succession of sharp sounds, resembling applause, and 
subsequently, by their seeing Alexander in contact with 
the coolest paving-stone in the court, greatly flushed, and 
loudly lamenting. 

The procession being then in a condition to form it- 
self once more, and repair to Brig Place, where a mar- 
riage feast was in readiness, returned as it had come 
not withDut the receipt, by Bunsby, of many humorous 
congratulations from the populace on his recently-acquired 
happiness. The captain accompanied it as far as the 
house-door, but, being made uneasy by the gentler man- 
ner of Mrs. Bokum, who, now that she was relieved from 


308 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


her engrossing duty — for the watchfulness and alacrity 
of the ladies sensibly diminished when the bridegroom 
was safely married — had greater leisure to show an in- 
terest in his behalf, there left it and the captive ; faintly 
pleading an appointment, and promising to return pres- 
ently. The captain had another cause for uneasiness, in 
remorsefully reflecting that he had been the first means 
of Bunsby’s entrapment, though certainly without intend- 
ing it, and through his unbounded faith in the resource:? 
of that philosopher. 

To go back to old Sol Gills at the Wooden Midship- 
man’s, and not first go round to ask how Mr. Dom- 
bey was — albeit the house where he lay was out of 
London, and away on the borders of a fresh heath 
— was quite out of the captain’s course. So he got 
a lift when he was tired, and made out the journey 

gay'j- 

The blinds were pulled down, and the house so quiet, 
that the captain was almost afraid to knock ; but listen- 
ing at the door, he heard low voices within, very near it, 
and, knocking softly, was admitted by Mr. Toots. Mr. 
Toots and his wife had, in fact, just arrived there; 
having been at the Midshipman’s to seek him, and hav- 
ing there obtained the address. 

They were not so recently arrived, but that Mrs. 
Toots had caught the baby from somebody, taken it in 
her arms, and sat down on the stairs, hugging and fon- 
dling it. Florence was stooping down beside her ; and 
no one could have said which Mrs. Toots was hugging 
and fondling most, the mother or the child, or which was 
the tenderer, Florence of Mrs. Toots, or Mrs. Toots of 
her, or both of the baby ; it was such a little group of 
love and agitation. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


309 


“And is your Pa very ill, my darling dear Miss 
Floy ? ” asked Susan. 

“He is very, very ill,” said Florence. “ But Susan 
dear, you must not speak to me as you used to speak. 
And what’s this ? ” said Florence, touching her clothes, 
in amazement. “ Your old dress, dear ? Your old cap, 
curls, and all ?” 

Susan burst into tears, and showered kisses on the 
little hand that had touched her so wonderingly. 

“ My dear Miss Dombey,” said Mr. Toots, stepping 
forward, “ I’ll explain. She’s the most extraordinary 
woman. There are not many to equal her ! She has 
always said — she said before we were married, and has 
said to this day — that whenever you came home, she’d 
come to you in no dress but the dress she used to serve 
you in, for fear she might seem strange to you, and you 
might like her less. I admire the dress myself,” said 
Mr. Toots, “ of all things. I adore her in it ! My dear 
Miss Dombey, she’ll be your maid again, your nurse, all 
that she ever was, and more. There’s no change in her. 
But Susan, my dear,” said Mr, Toots, who had spoken 
with great feeling and high admiration, “ all I ask is, 
that you’ll remember the medical man, and not exert 
yourself too much ! ” 


310 


DOMBEY AND SON, 


CHAPTER LXL 

RELENTING. 

Florence had need of help. Her father’s need of 
it was sore, and made the aid of her old friend invalu* 
able. Death stood at his pillow. A shade, already, of 
what he had been, shattered in mind, and perilously sick 
in body, he laid his weary head down on the bed his 
daughter’s hands prepared for him, and had never raised 
it since. 

She was always with him. He knew her, generally ; 
though, in the wandering of his brain, he often confused 
the circumstances under which he spoke to her. Thus 
he would address her, sometimes, as if his boy were 
newly dead ; and would tell her, that although he had 
said nothing of her ministering at the little bedside, yet 
he had seen it — he had seen it ; and then would hide 
his face and sob, and put out his worn hand. Sometimes 
he would ask her for herself. “ Where is Florence ? 

“ I am here, papa, I am here.” “ I don’t know her 1 ” 
he would cry. “We have been parted so long, that 1 
don’t know her ! ” and then a staring dread would be 
upon him, until she could soothe his perturbation ; and 
recall the tears she tried so hard, at other times, to dry. 

He rambled through the scenes of his old pursuits — 
through many where Florence lost him as she listened — 
sometimes for hours. He would repeat that childish 
question, “ What is money ? ” and ponder on it, and think 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


311 


about it, and reason with himself, more or less connect* 
edly, for a good answer ; as if it had never been pro- 
posed to him until that moment. He would go on with 
a musing repetition of the title of his old firm twenty 
thousand times, and, at every one of them, would turn 
his head upon his pillow. He would count his children 
— one — two — stop, and go back, and begin again in 
the same way. 

But this was when his mind was in its most distracted 
state. In all the other phases of its illness, and in those 
to which it was most constant, it always turned on Flor- 
ence. What he would oftenest do was this : he would 
recall that night he had so recently remembered, the 
night on which she came down to his room, and would 
imagine that his heart smote him, and that he went out 
after her, and up the stairs to seek her. Then, confound- 
ing that time with the later days of the many footsteps, 
he would be amazed at their number, and begin to count 
them as he followed her. Here, of a sudden, was a 
bloody footstep going on among the others ; and after it 
there began to be, at intervals, doors standing open, 
through which certain terrible pictures were seen, in 
mirrors, of haggard men, concealing something in their 
breasts. Still, among the many footsteps and the bloody 
footsteps here and there, was the step of Florence. Still 
she was going on before. Still the restless mind went, 
following and counting, ever farther, ever higher, as to 
the summit of a mighty tower that it took years to 
climb. 

One day he inquired if that were not Susan who had 
spoken a long while ago. 

Florence said, “ Yes, dear papa ; ” and asked him 
would he like to see her? 


312 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


He said “very much.” And Susan, with no little 
trepidation, showed herself at his bedside. 

It seemed a great relief to him. He begged her not 
to go ; to understand that he forgave her what she had 
said ; and that she was to stay. Florence and he were 
very different now, he said, and very happy. Let her 
look at this ! He meant his drawing the gentle head 
down to his pillow, and laying it beside him. 

He remained like this for days and weeks. At length, 
lying the faint feeble semblance of a man, upon his bed, 
and speaking in a voice so low that they could only hear 
him by listening very near to his lips, he became quiet. 
It was dimly pleasant to him now, to lie there, with the 
window open, looking out at the summer sky and the 
trees : and, in the evening, at the sunset. To watch the 
shadows of the clouds and leaves, and seem to feel a 
sympathy with shadows. It was natural that he should. 
To him, life and the world were nothing else. 

He began to show now that he thought of Florence’s 
fatigue ; and often taxed his weakness to whisper to her, 
“ go and walk, my dearest, in the sweet air. Go to your 
good husband!” One time when Walter was in his 
room, he beckoned him to come near, and to stoop down ; 
and pressing his hand, whispered an assurance to him 
that he knew he could trust him with his child when he 
was dead. 

It chanced one evening, towards sunset, when Flor- 
ence and Walter were sitting in his room together, as he 
liked to see them, that Florence, having her baby in her 
arms, began in a low voice, to sing to the little fellow, 
and sang the old tune she had so often sung to the dead 
child. He could not bear it at the time ; he held up his 
trembling hand, imploring her to stop; but next day he 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


313 


asked her to repeat it, and to do so often of an evening . 
which she did. He listening, with his face turned away. 

Florence was sitting on a certain time by his window, 
with her work-basket between her and her old attendant, 
who was still her faithful companion. He had fallen into 
a doze. It was a beautiful evening, ’with two hours of 
light to come yet ; and the tranquillity and quiet made 
Florence very thoughtful. She was lost to everything 
for the moment, but the occasion when the so altered 
figure on the bed had first presented her to her beautiful 
mama; when a touch from Walter leaning on the back 
of her chair, made her start. 

“My dear,” said Walter, “there is some one down- 
stairs who wishes to speak to you.” 

She fancied Walter looked grave, and asked him if 
anything had happened. 

“ No, no, my love ! ” said Walter. “ I have seen the 
gentleman myself, and spoken with him. Nothing has 
happened. Will you come ? ” 

Florence put her arm through his : and confiding her 
father to the black-eyed Mrs. Toots, who sat as brisk 
and smart at her work as black-eyed woman could, ac- 
companied her husband down-stairs. In the pleasant lit- 
tle parlor opening on the garden, sat a gentleman, who 
rose to advance towards her when she came in, but 
turned off, by reason of some peculiarity in his legs, and 
was only stopped by the table. 

Florence then remembered Cousin Feenix, whom she 
had not at first recognized in the shade of the leaves. 
Cousin Feenix took her hand, and congratulated her 
upon her marriage. 

“ I could have wished, I am sure,” said Cousin Feenix, 
sitting down as Florence sat, “ to have had an earlier 


314 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


opportunity of offering my congratulations ; but, in point 
of fact, so many painful occurrences have happened, 
treading, as a man may say, on one another’s heels, that 
I have been in a devil of a state myself, and perfectly 
unfit for every description of society. The only descrip- 
tion of society I have kept, has been my own ; and it 
certainly is anything but flattering to a man’s good opin- 
ion of his own resources, to know that, in point of fact, 
he has the capacity of boring himself to a perfectly un- 
limited extent.” 

Florence divined, from some indefinable constraint and 
anxiety in this gentleman’s manner — which was always 
a gentleman’s, in spite of the harmless little eccentrici- 
ties that attached to it — and from Walter’s manner no 
less, that something more immediately tending to some 
object was to follow this. 

“I have been mentioning to my friend Mr. Gay, if 
I may be allowed to have the honor of calling him so,” 
said Cousin Feenix, “that I am rejoiced to hear that 
my friend Dombey is very decidedly mending. I trust 
my friend Dombey will not allow his mind to be too 
much preyed upon, by any mere loss of fortune. I can- 
not say that I have ever experienced any very great 
loss of fortune myself : never having had, in point of 
fact, any great amount of fortune to lose. But as much 
as I could lose, I have lost ; and I don’t find that I 
particularly care about it. I know my friend Dombey 
to be a devilish honorable man ; and it’s calculated to 
console my friend Dombey very much, to know, that 
this is the universal sentiment. Even Tommy Screwzer, 
man of an extremely bilious habit, with whdm my friend 
Gay is probably acquainted — cannot say a syllable in 
disputat'on of the fact.” 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


315 


Florence felt, more than ever, that there was some- 
thing to come ; and looked earnestly for it. So ear- 
nestly, that Cousin Fe§pix answered, as if she had 
spoken. 

“ The fact is,” said Cousin Feenix, “ that my friend 
Gay and myself have been discussing the propriety of 
entreating a favor at your hands ; and that I have the 
consent of my friend Gay — who has met me in an 
exceedingly kind and open manner, for which I am very 
much indebted to him — to solicit it. I am sensible that 
so amiable a lady as the lovely and accomplished daugh- 
ter of my friend Dombey will not require much urg- 
ing ; but I am happy to know, that I am supported by 
my friend Gay’s influence and approval. As in my 
parliamentary time, when a man had a motion to make 
of any sort — which happened seldom in those days, 
for we were kept very tight in hand, the leaders on 
both sides being regular martinets, which was a devilish 
good thing for the rank and file, like myself, and pre- 
vented our exposing ourselves continually, as a great 
many of us had a feverish anxiety to do — as, in my 
parliamentary time, I was about to say, when a man 
had leave to let off any little private pop-gun, it was 
always considered a great point for him to say that he 
had the happiness of believing that his sentiments were 
not without an echo in the breast of Mr. Pitt ; the pilot, 
in point of fact, who had weathered the storm. Upon 
which, a devilish large number of fellows immediately 
cheered, and put him in spirits. Though the fact is, 
that these fellows,’ being under orders to cheer most 
excessively whenever Mr. Pitt’s name was mentioned, 
became so proficient that it always woke ’em. And they 
were so entirely innocent of what was going on, other- 


316 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


wise, that it used to be commonly said by Conversa- 
tion Brown — four bottle man at the Treasury board, 
with whom the father of my #iend Gay was probably 
acquainted, for it was before my friend Gay’s time — 
that if a man had risen in his place, and said that he 
regretted to inform the house that there was an hon- 
orable member in the last stage of convulsions in the 
Lobby, and that the honorable member’s name was Pitt, 
the approbation would have been vociferous.” 

This postponement of the point, put Florence in a 
flutter; and she looked from Cousin Feenix to Walter, 
in increasing agitation. 

“ My love,” said Walter, “ there is nothing the mat- 
ter.” 

“ There is nothing the matter, upon my honor,” said 
Cousin Feenix; “ and I am deeply distressed at being 
the means of causing you a moment’s uneasiness. I beg 
to assure you that there is nothing the matter. The 
favor that I have to ask is, simply — but it really does 
seem so exceeding singular, that I should be in the 
last degree obliged to my friend Gay if he would have 
the goodness to break the — in point of fact, the ice,” 
said Cousin Feenix. 

Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in 
the look that Florence turned towards him. said : 

“My dearest, it is no more than this. That you 
will ride to London with this gentleman, whom you 
know.” 

“ And my friend Gay, also — I beg your pardon ! ” 
interrupted Cousin Feenix. 

— “ And with me — and make a visit somewhere.” 

“ To whom ? ” asked Florence, looking from one to 
the other. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


317 


“ If I might entreat,” said Cousin Feenix, “ that you 
would not press for an answer to that question, I would 
venture to take the liberty of making the request.” 

“ Do you know, Walter ? ” said Florence. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And think it right ? ” 

“ Yes. Only because I am sure that you would, too 
Though there may be reasons I very well understand, 
which make it better that nothing more should be said 
beforehand.” 

“ If papa is still asleep, or can spare me if he is 
awake, I will go immediately,” said Florence. And ris- 
ing quietly, and glancing at them with a look that was 
a little alarmed but perfectly confiding, left the room. 

When she came back, ready to bear them company, 
they were talking together, gravely, at the window ; and 
Florence could not but wonder what the topic was, that 
had made them so well acquainted in so short a time. 
She did not wonder at the look of pride and love with 
which her husband broke off as she entered ; for she 
never saw him, but that rested on her. 

“ I will leave,” said Cousin Feenix, “ a card for my 
friend Dombey, sincerely trusting that he will pick up 
health and strength with every returning hour. And 
I hope my. friend Dombey will do me the favor to con- 
sider me a man who has a devilish warm admiration 
of his character, as, in point of fact, a British merchant 
and a devilish upright gentleman. My place in the 
country is in a most confounded state of dilapidation, 
but if my friend Dombey should require a change of 
air, and would take up his quarters there, he would find 
it a remarkably healthy spot — as it need be, for it’s 
amazingly dull. If my friend Dombey suffers from bod- 


318 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


ily weakness, and would allow me to recommend what 
has frequently done myself good, as a man who has 
been extremely queer at times, and who lived pretty 
freely in the days when men lived very freely, I should 
say, let it be in point of fact the yolk of an egg, beat 
up with sugar and nutmeg, in a glass of sherry, and 
taken in the morning with a slice of dry toast. Jack- 
eon, who kept the boxing-rooms in Bond-street — man 
of very superior qualifications, with whose reputation my 
friend Gay is no doubt acquainted — used to mention 
that in training for the ring they substituted rum for 
sherry. I should recommend sherry in this case, on 
account of my friend Dombey being in an invalided 
condition ; which might occasion rum to fly — jn point 
of fact to his head — and throw him into a devil of a 
state.” 

Of all this, Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an 
obviously nervous and discomposed air. Then, giving 
his arm to Florence, and putting the strongest possible 
constraint upon his wilful legs which seemed deter- 
mined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, 
and handed her into a carriage that was ready for her 
reception. 

Walter entered after him, and they drove away. 

Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they 
drove through certain dull and stately streets, Ivins’ 
westward in London, it was growing dusk. Florence 
had, by this time, put her hand in Walter’s ; and was 
looking very earnestly, and with increasing agitation, 
into every new street into which they turned. 

When the carriage stopped, at last, before that house 
in Brook-street, where her father’s unhappy marriage 
bad been celebrated, Florence said, “ Walter, what is 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


319 


this ? Who is here ? ” Walter cheering her, and not 
replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that 
all the windows were shut, as if it were uninhabited 
Cousin Feenix had by this time alighted, and was offer- 
ing his hand. 

Are you not coming, Walter ? ” 

“ No, I will remain here. Don’t tremble ! there is 
nothing to fear, dearest Florence.” 

“I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am suie 
of that, but” — 

The door was softly opened, without any knock, and 
Cousin Feenix led her out of the summer evening air 
into the close dull house. More sombre and brown 
than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the 
wedding-day, and to have hoarded darkness and sad- 
ness ever since. 

Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; 
and stopped with her conductor, at the drawing-room 
door. He opened it, without speaking, and signed an 
entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while 
he remained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, 
complied. 

Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed 
to have been writing or drawing, was a lady, whose 
head, turned away towards the dying light, was resting 
on her hand. Florence advancing, doubtfully, all at 
once stood still, as if she had lost the power of motion 
The lady turned her head. 

“ Great Heaven ! ” she said, “ what is this ? ” 

“ No, no ! ” cried Florence, shrinking back as she rose 
up, and putting out her hands to keep her off. “ Mama ! ” 

They stood looking at each other. Passion and pride 
had worn it, but it was the face of Edith, and beautiful 


320 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


and stately yet. It was the face of Florence, and 
through all the terrified avoidance it expressed, there was 
pity in it, sorrow, a grateful tender memory. On each 
face, wonder and fear were painted vividly ; each, so 
still and silent, looking at the other over the black gulf 
of the irrevocable past. 

Florence was the first to change. Bursting into tears, 
she said, from her full heart, “ Oh mama, mama ! why 
do we meet like this ? Why were you ever kind to me 
when there was no one else, that we should meet like 
this ? ” 

Edith stood before her, dumb and motionless. Her 
eyes were fixed upon her face. 

“ I dare not think of that,” said Florence, “ I am come 
from papa’s sick-bed. We are never asunder now ; we 
never shall be, any more. If you would have me ask 
his pardon, I will do it, mama. I am almost sure he 
will grant it now, if I ask him. May Heaven grant it to 
you, too, and comfort you ! ” 

She answered not a word. 

“ Walter — I am married to him, and we have a son ” 
— said Florence, timidly, “ is at the door, and has 
brought me here. I will tell him that you are repentant ; 
that you are changed,” said Florence, looking mournfully 
upon her ; “ and he will speak to papa with me, I know. 
Is there anything but this that I can do ? ” 

Edith, breaking her silence, without moving eye or 
limb, answered slowly : 

“ The stain upon your name, upon your husband’s, on 
vo ir child’s. Will that ever be forgiven, Florence ?” 

“ Will it ever be, mama ? It is ! Freely, freely, both 
by Walter and by me. If that is any consolation to you, 
there is nothing that you may believe more certainly. 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


321 


You do not — you do not,” faltered Florence, “speak of 
papa ; but I am sure you wish that I should ask him for 
his forgiveness. I am sure you do.” 

She answered not a word. 

“ I will ! ” said Florence. “ T will bring it you, if you 
will hit me ; and then, perhaps, we may take leave of 
each other, more like what we used to be to one another. 
I have not,” said Florence very gently, and drawing 
nearer to her, “ I have not shrunk back from you, mama, 
because I fear you, or because I dread to be disgraced 
by you. I only wish to do my duty to papa. I am very 
dear to him, and he is very dear to me. But I never 
can forget that you were very good to me. Oh, pray to 
.leaven,” cried Florence, falling on her bosom, “ pray to 
Heaven, mama, to forgive you all this sin and shame, 
and to forgive me if I cannot help doing this (if it is 
wrong), when I remember what you used to be ! ” 

Edith, as if she fell beneath her touch, sunk down on 
her knees, and caught her round the neck. 

“ Florence ! ” she cried. “ My better angel ! Before 
I am mad again, before my stubbornness comes back and 
strikes me dumb, believe me, upon my soul I am inno- 
cent.” 

“ Mama ! ” 

“ Guilty of much ! Guilty of that which sets a waste 
between us evermore. Guilty of what must separate 
me, through the whole remainder of my life, from purity 
and innocence — from you, of all the earth. Guilty of 
a blind and passionate resentment, of which I do not, 
cannot, will not, even now, repent ; but not guilty with 
that dead man. Before God ! ” 

Upon her knees upon the ground, she held up both 
her hands and swore it. 


VOL. iv. 


21 


322 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


“ Florence ! ” she said, “ purest and best of natures, — 
whom I love — who might have changed me long ago, 
and did for a time work some change even in the woman 
that I am, — believe me, I am innocent of that; and 
once more, on my desolate heart, let me lay this dear 
head, for the last time ! ” 

She was moved and weeping. Had she been oftener 
thus in older days, she had been happier now. 

“ There is nothing else in all the world,” she said, 
“ that would have wrung denial from me. No love, no 
hatred, no hope, no threat. I said that I would die, and 
make no sign, I could have done so, and I would, if we 
had never met, Florence.” 

“ I trust,” said Cousin Feenix, ambling in. at the door, 
and speaking half in the room, and half out of it, “ that 
my lovely and accomplished relative will excuse my 
having, by a little stratagem, effected this meeting. I 
cannot say that I was, at first, wholly incredulous as to 
4 1 he possibility of my lovely and accomplished relative 
having, very unfortunately, committed herself with the 
deceased person with white teeth ; because, in point of 
fact, one does see, in this world — which is remarkable 
for devilish strange arrangements, and for being decid- 
edly the most unintelligible thing within a man’s expe- 
rience — very odd conjunctions of that sort. But, as I 
mentioned to my friend Dombey, I could not admit the 
criminality of my lovely and accomplished relative until 
it was perfectly established. And feeling, when the de- 
ceased person was, in point of fact, destroyed in a devil- 
ish horrible manner, that her position was a very pain- 
ful one — and feeling besides that our family had been a 
little to blame in not paying more attention to her, and 
that we are a careless family — and also that my aunt, 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


323 


though a devilish lively woman, had perhaps not beer, 
the very best of mothers — I took the liberty of seeking 
her in France, and offering her such protection as a man 
very much out at elbows could offer. Upon which occa- 
sion, my lovely and accomplished relative did me the 
honor to express that she believed I was, in my way, a 
devilish good sort of fellow ; and that therefore she put 
herself under my protection. Which in point of fact I 
understood to be a kind thing on the part of my lovely 
and accomplished relative, as I am getting extremely 
shaky, and have derived great comfort from her solic- 
itude” 

Edith, who had taken Florence to a sofa, made a ges- 
ture with her hand as if she would have begged him to 
say no more. 

“My lovely and accomplished relative,” resumed 
Cousin Feenix, still ambling about at the door, “ will 
excuse me if, for her satisfaction, and my own, and that 
of my friend Dombey, whose lovely and accomplished 
daughter we so much admire, I complete the thread of 
my observations. She will remember that, from the 
first, she and I have never alluded to the subject of her 
elopement. My impression, certainly, has always been, 
that there was a mystery in the affair which she could 
explain if so inclined. But my lovely and accomplished 
relative being a devilish resolute woman, I knew that 
she was not, in point of fact, to be trifled with, and there- 
fore did not involve myself in any discussions. But, 
observing lately, that her accessible point did appear to 
be a very strong description of tenderness for the 
daughter of my friend Dombey, it occurred to me that 
if I could bring about a meeting, unexpected on both 
sides, it might lead tc beneficial results. Therefore, we 


324 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


being in London, in the present private way before going 
(o the South of Italy, there to establish ourselves, in 
point of fact, until we go to our long homes, which is a 
devilish disagreeable reflection for a man, I applied my- 
self to the discovery of the residence of my friend Gay 
— handsome man of an uncommonly frank disposition, 
who is probably known to my lovely and accomplished 
relative — and had the happiness of bringing his amiable 
wife to the present place. And now,” said Cousin Fee- 
nix, with a real and genuine earnestness shining through 
the levity of his manner and his slipshod speech, u I do 
conjure my relative, not to stop half-w T ay, but to set 
right, as far as she can, whatever she has done wrong — 
not for the honor of her family, not for her own fame, 
not for any of those considerations which unfortunate 
circumstances have induced her to regard, as hollow, 
and in point of fact, as approaching to humbug — but 
because it is wrong, and not right.” 

Cousin Feenix’s legs consented to take him away after 
this ; and leaving them alone together, he shut the door. 

Edith remained silent for some minutes, with Florence 
sitting close beside her. Then she took from her bosom 
a sealed paper. 

“ I debated with myself a long time,” she said in a 
low voice, “ whether to write this at all, in case of dying 
suddenly or by accident, and feeling the want of it upon 
me. I have deliberated, ever since, when and how to 
destroy it. Take it, Florence. The truth is written in 
it.” 

“ Is it for papa ? ” asked Florence. 

“ It is for whom you will,” she answered. “ It is given 
to you, and is obtained by you. He never could have 
had it otherwise.” 


DOM HEY AND SON. 


325 


Again they sat silent, in the deepening darkness. 

“ Mama,” said Florence, “he has lost his fortune ; he 
has been at the point of death ; he may not recover, 
even now. Is there any word that I shall say to him 
from you ? ” 

“ Did you tell me,” asked Edith, “ that you were very 
dear to him ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” said Florence, in a thrilling voice. 

“ Tell him I am sorry that we ever met.” 

“No more?” said Florence after a pause. 

“ Tell him, if he asks, that I do not repent of what I 
have done — not yet — for if it were to do again to-mor- 
row, I should do it. But if he is a changed man ” — 

She stopped. There was something in the silent 
touch of Florence’s hand that stopped her. 

— “ But that being a changed man, he knows, now, it 
would never be. Tell him I wish it never had been.” 

“ May I say,” said Florence, “ that you grieved to 
hear of the afflictions he has suffered ? ” 

“ Not,” she replied, “ if they have taught him that his 
daughter is very dear to him. He will not grieve for 
them himself, one day, if they have brought that lesson ? 
Florence.” 

“ You wish well to him, and would have him happy. 
I am sure you would ! ” said Florence. “ Oh ! let me 
be able, if I have the occasion at some future time to say 
so ? ” 

Edith sat with her dark eyes gazing steadfastly before 
her, and did not reply until Florence had repeated her 
entreaty ; when she drew her hand within her arm, and 
said, with the same thoughtful gaze upon the night out- 
side : 

“ Fell him that if, in his own present, he can find any 


326 


DOMBEY AND SOX. 


reason to compassionate my past, I sent word that I 
asked him to do so. Tell him that if, in his own present, 
he can find a reason to think less bitterly of me, I asked 
him to do so. Tell him, that, dead as we are to one an- 
other, never more to meet on this side of eternity, he 
knows there is one feeling in common between us now f 
that there never was before.” 

Her sternness seemed to yield, and there were tears in 
her dark eyes. 

“ I trust myself to that,” she said, “ for his better 
thoughts of me, and mine of him. When he loves his 
Florence most, he will hate me least. When he is most 
proud and happy in her and her children, he will be 
most repentant of his own part in the dark vision of our 
married life. At that time, I will be repentant too — 
let him know it then — and think that when I thought 
so much of all the causes that had made me what I was, 
I needed to have allowed more for the causes that had 
made him what he was. I will try, then, to forgive him 
his share of blame. Let him try to forgive me mine ! ” 

“ Oh mama ! ” said Florence. u How it lightens my 
heart, even in such a meeting and parting, to hear this!” 

“ Strange words in my own ears,” said Edith, “ and 
foreign to the sound of my own voice ! But even if I 
had been the wretched creature I have given him occa- 
sion to believe me, I think I could have said them still, 
hearing that you and he were very dear to one another. 
Let him, when you are dearest, ever feel that he is most 
forbearing in his thoughts of me — that I am most for- 
bearing in my thoughts of him ! Those are the last 
words I send him ! Now, good-by, my life ! ” 

She clasped her in her arms, and seemed to pour out 
all her woman s soul of love and tenderness at once 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


327 


“ This kiss for your child ! These kisses for a bless- 
ing on your head ! My own dear Florence, my sweet 
girl, farewell!” 

To meet again ! ” cried Florence. 

• k Never again ! Never again ! When you leave me 
in this dark room, think that you have left me in the 
grave. Remember only that I was once, and that I 
loved you ! ” 

And Florence left her, seeing her face no more, but 
aLCompanied by her embraces and caresses to the last. 

Cousin Feenix met her at the door, and took her down 
to Walter in the dingy dining-room, upon whose shoulder 
she laid her head weeping. 

“ I am devilish sorry,” said Cousin Feenix, lifting his 
wristbands to his eyes in the simplest manner possible, 
and without the least concealment, “ that the lovely and 
accomplished daughter of my friend Dombey and amia- 
ble wife of my friend Gay, should have had her sensitive 
nature so very much distressed and cut up by the inter- 
view which is just concluded. But I hope and trust I 
have acted for the best, and that my honorable friend 
Dombey will find his mind relieved by the disclosures 
which have taken place. I exceedingly lament that my 
friend Dombey should have got himself, in point of fact, 
into the devil’s own state of conglomeration by an al- 
liance with our family ; but am strongly of opinion that 
if it hadn’t been for the infernal scoundrel Barker — 
man with white teeth — everything would have gone on 
pretty smoothly. In regard to my relative who does me 
the honor to have formed an uncommonly good opinion 
af myself, I can assure the amiable wife of my friend 
Gay, that she may rely on my being, in point of fact, a 
father to her. And in regard to the changes of human 


32S 


DOM HEY AND SON. 


tile, unci the extraordinary manner in which we are per 
petually conducting ourselves, all I can say is, with my 
friend Shakspeare — man who wasn’t for an age but for 
all time, and with whom my friend Gay is no doubt 
acquainted — that it’s like the shadow of a dream.” 


jX)MBEY and son. 


829 


CHAPTER LXIL 

FINAL. 

A bottle that has been long excluded from the light 
of day, and is hoary with dust and cobwebs, has been 
brought into the sunshine ; and the golden wine within 
it sheds a lustre on the table. 

It is the last bottle of the old Madeira. 

“You are quite right, Mr. G ills, ” says Mr. Dombey. 
“ This i>' a very rare and most delicious wine.” 

The captain, who is of the party, beams with joy. 
There is a very halo of delight round his glowing fore- 
head. 

“ We always promised ourselves, sir,” observes Mr. 
Gills, “Ned and myself, I mean” — 

Mr. Dombey nods at the captain, who shines more 
and more with speechless gratification. 

— “ that we would drink this, one day or other, to 
Walter safe at home : though such a home we never 
thought of. If you don’t object to our old whim, sir, let 
us devote this first glass to Walter and his wife.” 

“To Walter and his wife!” says Mr. Dombey. 
“ Florence, my child ” — and turns to kiss her. 

“To Walter and his wife!” says Mr. Toots. 

“To Wal’r and his wife!” exclaims the captain. 
f ‘ Hooroar ! ” and the captain exhibiting a strong desire 
to clink Ids glass against some other glass, Mr. Dombey, 


330 


DOMBEY ANL SON. 


with a ready hand, holds out his. The others follow ; 
and there is a blithe and merry ringing, as of a little 
peal of marriage-bells. 

Other buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did 
in its time; and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles. 

Mr. Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face 
hears heavy marks of care and suffering ; but they are 
traces of a storm that has passed on forever, and left a 
clear evening in its track. 

Ambitious projects trouble him no more. His only 
pride is in his daughter and her husband. He has a silent, 
thoughtful, quiet manner, and is always with his daugh- 
ter. Miss Tox is not unfrequently of the family party, 
and is quite devoted to it, and a great favorite. Her ad- 
miration of her once stately patron is, and has been ever 
since the morning of her shock in Princess’-place, pla- 
tonic, but not weakened in the least. 

Nothing has drifted to him from the wreck of his for- 
tunes, but a certain annual sum that comes he knows not 
how, with an earnest entreaty that he will not seek to 
discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt, and an 
act of reparation. He has consulted with his old clerk 
about this, who is clear it may be honorably accepted, 
and has no doubt it arises out of some forgotten transac- 
tion in the times of the old House. 

That hazel-eyed bachelor, a bachelor no more, is mar- 
ried now, and to the sister of the gray-haired junior. He 
visits his old chief sometimes, but seldom. There is a 
reason in the gray-haired junior’s history, and yet a 
stronger reason in his name, why he should keep retired 
from his old employer; and as he lives with his sister 
and her husband, they participate in that retirement 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


331 


Waller sees them sometimes — Florence too — and the 
pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged 
for the pianoforte and violoncello, and with the labors of 
Harmonious Blacksmiths. 

And how goes the Wooden Midshipman in these 
changed days ? Why, here he still is, right leg fore- 
most, hard at work upon the hackney-coaches, and more 
on the alert than ever, being newly painted from his 
cocked hat to his buckled shoes ; and up above him, in 
golden characters, these names shine refulgent, Gills 
and Cuttle. 

Not another stroke of business does the Midshipman 
achieve beyond his usual easy trade. But they do say, 
in a circuit of some half mile round the blue umbrella in 
Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr. Gills’s old invest- 
ments are coming out wonderfully well; and that instead 
of being behind the time in those respects, as he sup- 
posed, he was, in truth, a little before it, and had to wait 
the fulness of the time and the design. The whisper is 
that Mr. Gills’s money has begun to turn itself, and that 
it is turning itself over and over pretty briskly. Certain 
it is that, standing at his shop-door, in his coffee-colored 
suit, with his chronometer in his pocket, and his spec- 
tacles on his forehead, he don’t appear to break his heart 
at customers not coming, but looks very jovial and con- 
tented, though full as misty as of yore. 

As to his partner, Captain Cuttle, there is a fiction of 
a business in the captain’s mind which is better than any 
reality. The captain is as satisfied of the Midshipman's 
importance to the commerce and navigation of the coun- 
try, as he could possibly be, if no ship left the port of 
London without the Midshipman’s assistance. His de- 
light in his own name over the door, is inexhaustible. 
He crosses the street, twenty times a day, to look at b 


332 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


from t he other side of the way; and invariably says, on 
these occasions, “ Ed’ard Cuttle, my lad, if your mother 
could ha’ know’d as you would ever be a man o’ science, 
the good old erect ur would ha’ been took aback in-deed ! ” 

But here is Mr. Toots descending on the Midshipman 
with violent rapidity, and Mr. Toots’s face is very red as 
he bursts into the little parlor. 

“Captain Gills , '* says Mr. Toots, “and Mr. Sols, I 
am happy to inform you that Mrs. Toots has had an in- 
crease to her family.” 

“ And it does her credit ! ” cries the captain. 

“ I give you joy, Mr. Toots ! ” says old Sol. 

“ Thankee,” chuckles Mr. Toots, “ I’m very much 
obliged to you. I knew that you’d be glad to hear, 
and so 1 came down myself. We’re positively getting 
on, you know. There’s Florence, and Susan, and now 
here's another little stranger.” 

“ A female stranger ? ” inquires the captain. 

“Yes, Captain Gills,” says Mr. Toots, “and I’m glad 
of it. The oftener we can repeat that most extraor 
dinary woman, my opinion is, the better ! ” 

“ Stand-by ! ” says the captain, turning to the old case- 
bottle with no throat — for it is evening, and the Mid- 
shipman’s usual moderate provisions of pipes and glasses 
is on the board. “ Here’s to her, and may she have ever 
so many more ! ” 

k Thankee’, Captain Gills,” says the delighted Mr. 
'Toots. “I echo the sentiment. If you’ll allow me, as 
my so doing cannot be unpleasant to anybody, under the 
circumstances, I think I’ll take a pipe.” 

Mr. Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the 
openness of his heart is very loquacious. 

“ Of all the remarkable instances that that delightful 
woman has given of her excellent sense, Captain Gills 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


333 


and Mr. Sols,” says Toots, “ I think none is more re- 
markable than the perfection with which she has under' 
stood my devotion to Miss Dombey.” 

Both his auditors assent. 

Because, you know,” says Mr. Toots, “ / have never 
changed my sentiments towards Miss Dombey. They 
are the same as ever. She is the same bright vision to 
me, at present, that she was before I made Walters’s ac- 
quaintance. When Mrs. Toots and myself first began to 
talk of — in short, of the tender passion, you know, Cap 
tain Gills.” 

“ Ay, ay, my lad,” says the captain, “ as makes us all 
slue round — for which you’ll overhaul the book ” — 

“ I shall certainly do so, Captain Gills,” said Mr. 
Toots, with great earnestness ; “ when we first began 
to mention such subjects, I explained that I was what 
you may call a blighted flower, you know.” 

The captain approves of this figure greatly ; and mur- 
murs that no flower as blows, is like the rose. 

“ But Lord bless me,” pursues Mr. Toots, “ she was 
as entirely conscious of the state of my feelings as I was 
myself. There was nothing I could tell her. She was 
the only person who could have stood between me and 
the silent tomb, and she did it, in a manner to command 
my everlasting admiration. She knows that there’s no- 
body in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss Dombey. 
She knows that there’s nothing on earth I wouldn’t do 
for Miss Dombey. She knows that I consider her the 
most beautiful, the most amiable, the most angelic of her 
sex. What is her observation upon that ? The perfec- 
tion of sense. ‘ My dear you’re right. I think so too.’” 

“ And so do I ! ” says the captain. 

“ So do I,” says Sol Gills. 

“Then.” resumes Mr. Toots, after some contemplative 


334 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


pulling at his pipe, during which his visage has cx 
pressed the most contented reflection, “ what an ob- 
servant woman my wife is ! What sagacity she pos- 
sesses ! What remarks she makes ! It was only last 
night, when we were sitting in the enjoyment of con- 
nubial bliss — which, upon my word and honor, is a 
feeble term to express my feelings in the society of my 
wife — that she said how remarkable it was to consider 
the present position of our friend Walters. 4 Here,* ob- 
serves my wife, ‘ he is, released from sea-going, after 
that first long voyage with his young bride’ — as you 
know he was, Mr. Sols.” 

“ Quite true,” says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing 
his hands. 

44 ‘ Here he is,’ says my wife, 4 released from that, 
immediately ; appointed by the same establishment to a 
post of great trust and confidence at home ; showing 
himself again worthy ; mounting up the ladder with the 
greatest expedition ; beloved by everybody ; assisted by 
his uncle at the very best possible time of his fortunes ’ 
— which I think is the case, Mr. Sols ? My wife is 
always correct.” 

“ Why yes, yes — some of our lost ships, freighted 
with gold, have come home, truly,” returns old Sol, 
laughing. “ Small craft, Mr. Toots, but serviceable to 
my boy!” 

“ Exactly so ! ” says Mr. Toots. “ You’ll never find 
my wife wrong. 4 Here he is,’ says that most remark- 
able woman, ‘so situated, — and what follows? What 
follows ? ’ observed Mrs. Toots. Now pray remark, 
Captain Gills, and Mr. Sols, the depth of my wife’s 
penetration. 4 Why that, under the very eye of Mr. 
Dombey. there is a foundation going on, upon which 
a — an Edifice;’ that was Mrs. Toots’s word,” says Mr- 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


335 


Touts, xuhingly, “‘is gradually rising perhaps to equal* 
perhaps- excel, tha/* of which he was once the head, and 
l lie small beginnings of which (a common fault, but a 
bad one, Mrs. Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus/ 
said my wife, ‘ from his daughter, after all, another 
Dombey and Son will ascend’ — no ‘rise;’ that was 
ilrs. Toots’s word — ‘ triumphant ! ’ ” 

Mr. Toots, with the assistance of his pipe — which he 
is extremely glad to devote to oratorical purposes, as its 
proper use affects him with a very uncomfortable sensa- 
tion — does such grand justice to this prophetic sentence 
of his wife’s, that the captain, throwing away his glazed 
hat in a state of the greatest excitement, cries : 

“ Sol Gills, you man of science, and my ould pardner, 
what did 1 tell Wal’r to overhaul- on that there night 
when he first took to business ? Was it this here quota- 
tion, ‘ Turn again Whittington Lord Mayor of London, 
and when you are old you will never depart from it.’ 
Was it them words, Sol Gills ? ” 

“It certainly was, Ned,” replied the old Instrument- 
maker. “ I remember well.” 

“ Then I tell you what,” says the captain, leaning 
back in his chair, and composing his chest for a prodig- 
ious roar. “I’ll give you Lovely Peg right through; 
and stand by, both on you, for the chorus ! ” 

Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in 
its time ; and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles. 

Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there 
are often a young lady, and a white-haired gentleman. 
With them or near them, are two children : boy and 
girl. And an old dog is generally in their company. 

The white-haired gentleman walks with the little l>oy » 
talks with bin, helps him in his play, attends upon him 


DOMBEY AND SON. 


336 

watches him, as if he were the object of his life. If he 
is thoughtful, the white-haired gentleman is thoughtful 
too ; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, 
and looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes 
the tiny hand in his, and holding it, forgets to answer. 
Then the child says : 

“ What, grandpapa, am I so like my poor little uncle 
again ? ” 

“ Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very 
strong.” 

“ Oh yes, I am very strong.” 

“ And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you 
can run about.” 

And so they range away again, busily, for the white- 
haired gentleman likes best to see the child free and 
stirring; and as they go about together, the story of the 
bond between them goes about, and follows them. 

But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of 
the white-haired gentleman’s affection for the girl. That 
story never goes about. The child herself almost won- 
ders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her 
in his heart, lie cannot bear to see a cloud upon her 
face. He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies 
that she feels a slight, when there is none. He steals 
away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases him to 
have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is 
fondest of her and most loving to her, when there is 
no creature by. The child says then, sometimes : 

“ Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss 
me ? ” 

He only answers “ Little Florence ! Little Florence ! ” 
and smooths away the curls that shade her earnest eyes. 












































































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Published by arrangement with the Author . 
volumes. 


2Hot60 of ^att 0 Cl) rattan 3nDer$sen. 

In uniform crown 8 VO 

7 7 

1. THE JMPRO VISA TORE ; or, Life in Italy. Translated by 

Mary Howitt. $1.75. 

“ As a delineation of the power of music, of art in its sunny home, 
it is unsurpassed by any one of that class of novels to which ‘ Charles 
Auchester ’ and ‘ Consuelo ’ belong ; but it is in its portraiture of 
scenery and life on the margin of the Mediterranean that it exercises 
its greatest charm. The narrative is steeped in the sunshine of Italy, 
and its descriptions glow with all the tints of the lovely peninsula/’ — 
New York Evening Post. 

2. THE TWO BARONESSES. A Danish Romance. $1.75. 

“ The story is not quite so long as the other, and, probably, it did 
not stand as high in the author’s estimation ; and yet, we prefer it to 
‘ The Improvisatore.’ It is wholly Danish in the life and characters 
it portrays, in the scenery it describes, and in the coloring through- 
out.” — Worcester Spy. 

3. IN SPAIN, AND A VISIT TO PORTUGAL. A book of 

Travels. $1.75. 

‘‘Making the journey were the next best thing to reading this 
book.” — Boston Commonwealth. 

4. WONDER STORIES TOLD FOR CHILDREN With 92 

illustrations. $2.25. 

5. O. T. A Danish Romance. $1.75. 

“ Andersen may be ranked as one of the best of living novelists.” 
— Lewiston Journal. 

6. ONLY A FIDDLER . A Danish Romance. $1.75. 

7. THE STORY OF MY LIFE. With a portrait of the author. 
Now first translated into English, and containing, in addition to the 

matter published fri the Copenhagen edition, “The last Fourteen 
Years of my Life,” contributed especially to this edition by the author. 
[In press.) 

8. STORIES AND TALES. With illustrations. 

A companion volume to “ Wonder Stories told for Children.” 
These two volumes contain the only complete uniform collection of 
Andersen’s famous shorter tales published in English. (In press.) 

9. IN THE HARZ MOUNTAINS. {In press.) 

10. A POETS BAZAAR. (In press.) 

11. DRAMAS AND POEMS. (In press.) 

HTJRD AND HOUGHTON, New York ; 

H. O. HOUGHTON & CO., Riverside, Cambridge, Mass. 





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AUG 1996 



kkeepfq 


Cranberry Twp., pa 16066 
(412)779-2111 





































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